Hands On Education
by Marlboro Blanc
Summary: AU. John Watson and his wife Sarah move to Bakerford and he takes up the position as the new biology teacher at St Bartholomew's school. He is bored of his new life until he meets a strange student by the name of Sherlock Holmes.
1. New Beginnings

Hands on Education

Chapter one. New Beginnings

_The sun was shining, the grass a vibrant green and the sky a clear blue peppered with fluffy clouds. He could hear birds singing, and Sherlock smiled and laughed happily._

'_Sherlock.__'__ It was his mother__'__s voice, calling him from some unknown direction. __'__Sherlock,__'__ she called again. _

'_Mummy,__'__ he replied. __'__Mummy where are you?__'__ he asked. _

'_Sherlock, where are you? Sherlock help me, I need you, I need you Sherlock, help me, help me Sherlock,__'__ she cried. Sherlock began to panic._

'_Where are you? Where are you, Mummy? I can__'__t see you.__'__ He looked round desperate for a glimpse of his mother. He ran, ran, and ran, tears stinging his eyes his stomach in knots from pure worry and desperation. He needed to find his mother, he needed to find mummy and help mummy, but he couldn__'__t see her. Where was she? Why couldn__'__t he find her? How could he help her if he couldn__'__t find her?_

'_Help me, Sherlock. Help me.__'_

Sherlock woke in a cold sweat, the momentary relief that it was all a dream flooded him, that damn dream. He had had that blasted dream again. 'How many more times?' he wondered to himself. How many more times would he wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat because of that blasted dream again? It was pitch black in his room, and it took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the lack of light. Reaching over to his bedside table, he clicked a button on the small alarm clock that rested there. The light lit up the clock's face and told him the time was three in the morning.

He shifted uncomfortably in his bed, kicking the duvet off himself as it was making him much too warm, his bed sheets sticking to his sweaty skin. The old t-shirt he slept in felt clammy and damp with sweat as did his pyjama bottoms. 'The dream isn't real,' he reminded himself, 'its okay, you are safe now.' He stared round his room in the darkness, making out the shapes of his wardrobe and desk. The curtain was drawn across his window.

He so desperately wanted someone, anyone, to talk to. Staring up at the ceiling and running a hand through his curly hair, he was reminded how incredibly alone he was. He could always text Mycroft, but he didn't think his elder brother would want to be disturbed by his brother who had simply had a bad dream. Mycroft had run away to university as soon as he could. Sherlock didn't blame him, he longed to do the same thing and would have done nothing different had he been in Mycroft's place, yet he still felt the sting of abandonment. He resented his brother for doing what he longed to do. Hated that he had been the one left behind. He longed to grow wings, to one day just pack up his things and go, leave all this behind and just go. Oh god, how glorious that would be — to leave this small town behind. No more school or those imbeciles that were his class mates or the even bigger imbeciles that were supposed to be teaching him. They were all idiots, all small minded idiots, and he probably knew more than all of them put together. One day, he promised himself, one day he would leave, and he would see the world and everything in it. One day.

He had not told Mycroft about this reoccurring dream he had. He told no one. In fact, he told no one anything, keeping so many things close to his chest, so many secrets. A sixteen year-old boy carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. Even before she died, his mother used to remark that it was not right for a son to be so closed off from the rest of the world, but Sherlock had liked it this way, liked being alone and being dependant only on himself. Now it seemed he had no other choice. He had been this way for so long, he didn't know how to be any different. As if the wind had changed, and he was now stuck this way.

No one would understand, not his father or his brother or even the librarian, Mrs Hudson. He was entirely alone. He pulled up the duvet back round himself and tried to settle back to sleep. Not for the first time he wished there was someone in his bed with him. Not for sex, he had never had sex, he hadn't even kissed. Come to think of it, he couldn't remember the last time someone had touched him or even spoke to him in an affectionate way. He was not like Moriarty who boasted to the rest of the school about his conquests, boasted that all he needed to do was say a few words to girls in those silky Irish tones and knickers would drop. He wore the love bites that littered his neck like a badge of honour. Sherlock groaned slightly. Thinking of Moriarty reminded him that the new school year started on Monday. No doubt, as soon as the first bell rang, St Bartholomew's would be filled with gossip about how Moriarty had spent the summer shagging for England. He seemed to see it as his personal mission to deflower the entire English countryside.

Maybe Moriarty would tease Sherlock for still being a virgin? He teased him about everything else: his unruly hair, his funny name, lanky limbs, non-existent social skills, even his dead mother. But, unlike other boys his own age, Sherlock didn't want sex. Well, he did, but just to see what it was like, just to experience what everyone kept banging on about. He didn't like having gaps in his knowledge, and he was curious about it he supposed. No, the reason he so desperately wanted someone in his bed was that he just wanted someone there to hold him, to put their arms around him and comfort him after a nightmare, to tell him everything was going to be alright. But there was no one, he was entirely alone. Sherlock Holmes, a solitary figure, a social outcast, alone, always alone, and he resigned himself to the fact he always would be.

* * *

><p>'This is the last box,' John Watson promised, handing the removal man a brown box simply marked 'Kitchen.' His wife, Sarah, was loading up their car. Their dog, a Springer Spaniel named Poppy, was running around generally getting in everyone's way. She was young, barely out of the puppy stage, and very excitable. She kept barking and running through everyone's legs, almost tripping John up a few times. He thought it was funny, as if she could tell something very big was happening. She was not used to her now-adult body, occasionally tripping up over her legs. She had long ears, the same chocolate brown shade as the patches that covered her otherwise white fur. John loved her, he loved the big, bright, intelligent, brown eyes and her wet nose. He was grateful for Poppy; moving so far away didn't seem so daunting when he was taking something so familiar with him.<p>

It was slightly odd, John thought as he looked at the removal van, seeing all these things, his whole life, packed away into neat little boxes. The house gutted of his presence so it was no longer recognisable, no longer felt like home. All he owned was in that van. An entire life brought down to a few pieces of soft furnishings.

John looked behind him at the house that had been his home for the past five years. He didn't want to leave, he loved London, loved the noise and the traffic, all the people and the constant hum of life. He would miss his friends, the coffee shops, monuments, museums, bars, restaurants, everything. He might even miss Harry though he barely spoke to her. He kept this to himself, of course. Sarah had already packed up and moved months ago, in her mind at least. Bakerford was nice, she kept telling him. They would love their new lives in a quiet, small town deep in the English countryside. It would be good, or so she kept telling him. She had accepted a position at the local surgery, and he had taken up a teaching post as the new biology teacher at the local secondary school. St Bartholomew's its name was.

'Ready?' Sarah asked.

'As I'll ever be,' he replied, smiling slightly, his fake reassuring smile that he seemed never to lose. Sarah's mother lived a few villages over from Bakerford, and the silly woman falling over and breaking her hip had started this whole 'let's move to the countryside' plan in the first place. Why Sarah wanted to be so close to her John did not know. She could still fall and break her hip if they lived in Bakerford, London, or bloody Timbuktu. He wanted to stay in London, he didn't want to be anywhere else, but Sarah was defiant.

'We'll be there by tea time,' Sarah commented then leaned over and kissed his cheek. She had promised to share the driving, and they would need to have regular breaks to stretch their legs and walk Poppy. They had given the removal men directions to their new address and set off.

It took them four hours to get there, their new home was a small, three-bedroom, red-bricked house just on the outskirts of the town. Small and cosy, just the way Sarah wanted to have it. It was a million miles away from their old house which was a new build, all shiny appliances, marble tops, laminated wooden floors, and spotlights in the ceilings. Magnolia replaced the white walls he was used to, and he would have to adjust to the dusty pink carpet that ran through the entire house.

The removal men arrived shortly after they did, and he left it up to Sarah to decide where they wanted their furniture placed. He simply made himself as useful as he could, carrying the boxes into their new house. He would leave all the actual unpacking for tomorrow, right now he felt tired and irritable. He wanted a good sit-down and a cold beer. Maybe even a small snooze, though he knew Sarah wouldn't let him.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw a couple approaching his front garden. The man, in his late forties, perhaps early fifties, had a head of silver hair. His wife looked a couple of years younger.

'Hullo.' She smiled at John. 'We're the neighbours,' she added cheerily.

'Greg Lestrade. This is my wife, Kate.' He reached a hand out, and John took it. The handshake was firm and strong.

'John Watson.' He smiled. 'My wife, Sarah, is in there somewhere,' he added as he gestured to the house.

'Nice to meet you, John. Welcome to Bakerford.' Formalities over with, they slipped into an easy conversation. He quickly learnt that Lestrade worked at the local police station and, because this town was small, it had a low crime rate so his job was actually pretty boring. He told John that he was goalie for the Sunday football team, and that John should try out as they were looking for new people. He also asked if John fancied coming along to the local pub, The Brown Bear, as it was quiz night on Fridays. John politely declined, but said he would next week. He didn't know why, but he immediately took a liking to this Lestrade fellow. Maybe living here wouldn't be too bad if all his neighbours were like this.

He took Sarah out that night, neither could be bothered to cook after the long journey and stress of moving. There was a small Italian restaurant called Angelo's in the centre of town. A smiling gentleman, who John assumed to be Angelo, greeted them.

'Haven't seen you before.' He shook John's hand a little too enthusiastically. He caught a slight East End accent, which reminded him of home. Angelo's itself was small and intimate, all soft lighting and rustic decor. He liked it. It was homely. No pretence, no pomp and circumstance, just a quiet little restaurant.

'We're new,' John informed him, slightly uncomfortable at being seen as an outsider. Clearly this town was one where everyone knew each other. He pined for London where even the most recognisable face could get lost amongst the crowds. He didn't like the idea of walking down the street and everyone knowing who he was and his business.

They took a table by the window and placed their order. He had a pizza, Sarah some sort of pasta dish and some wine.

'We are going to fit in here just fine,' Sarah said, squeezing his hand. John was not so sure but again said nothing.

The wine Angelo provided was good, he had a few more glasses through the meal and felt light headed and slightly drunk as they left. He giggled all the way home in the car and tripped slightly as he walked through the front door.

The wine coursing round his system made him bold as brass later that evening. As they changed for bed, ready to put this long day behind them, he kissed a trail up his wife's neck, running a tongue over the pulse and nuzzling into her neck, breathing in her perfume. He fondled her breasts slightly through her night clothes, pinching the nipples gently, wrapping another arm around her waist. He felt his cock stir to life.

'I think we need to christen this house,' he spoke suggestively. She sighed and lay down on the bed, plumping up her pillow with her hands.

'I'm tired. Maybe tomorrow. I have a light headache,' she trailed off a list of excuses. John sighed and turned out the light, lying down in the darkness.

'Typical, just typical,' he thought.

* * *

><p>Sarah woke up early that morning. She let John sleep in and fixed herself breakfast. After a cup of tea and a few slices of toast, she decided to take Poppy out for her morning walk. As soon as she stepped out, she breathed in a deep breath, and the cool September air rushed into her lungs. Clean and crisp, not like the heavily polluted air of London. She walked with a spring in her step, excited at the start of her new life in the countryside. She knew her husband was not so keen on the idea, but she would convince him eventually. They were close to her mum. Family was more important to her than John, who barely spoke to his parents or his sister, Harry. Bakerford was nice, they could be happy here, maybe even start raising a family of their own. John just needed to give it a chance.<p>

She was snapped out of her daydream by Poppy, who had taken an interest in a young man, running up to him and sniffing his hands and legs. He was leaning up against the wall smoking a cigarette. A plastic bag lay at his feet filled with what looked like library books. That was odd she thought. Poppy was normally weary of strangers yet seemed perfectly at ease with this boy who was currently patting her head. She went in for a closer inspection. He was a teenager, fifteen, maybe sixteen. He had angular features and sharp cheekbones but otherwise a rather boyish face. He had a crop of rather unruly, curly, black hair and the most mysterious eyes Sarah had ever seen. They were blue or possibly grey or maybe even green, her mind just could not decide. He was tall despite being so young. He was almost six foot, but he didn't look comfortable with his size. He looked awkward, as if he was used to being much smaller. 'Growth spurt,' she thought with a smile.

'Hello.' She smiled brightly, greeting the boy. He looked up at her, she felt his gaze on her and marvelled at how it seemed to see everything all at once. It was almost unnerving.

'Hello,' he replied.

'This is my dog, Poppy.' He continued to pat the dogs head, she nuzzled her wet nose into his hand as a sign of affection. He tilted his head, paused for a few moments, then began to speak.

'You're new here. You're a doctor, only arrived here yesterday from London.' He went back to petting Poppy as if what he had done was nothing at all, as if he had just made a comment on the weather.

'Wow. How did you do that?' Sarah asked, amazed at the boys skill. He shrugged. Sarah had never seen anything quite like it.

'What's your name?' she asked.

'Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.' That was a funny name Sarah thought, but she was far too polite to mention it out loud.

'It's nice to meet you Sherlock. I'm Sarah. I say, do you go to St Bartholomew's?' It was not out of the question, he was the right age.

'St Bart's? Yes, I do. Why do you ask?' He raised an eyebrow quizzically, as if unused to anyone taking an interest in him.

'Oh, no real reason. It's just my husband starts work there on Monday. He is the new biology teacher. I'll tell him to look out for you.'

'Oh,' Sherlock replied, obviously uninterested. She couldn't blame him, she remembered her days as a schoolgirl. Summer holiday stretching out in front of her as if it would last forever, then the familiar dread of returning to school, ignoring anything vaguely school related even in the dying days of summer.

'I better be off. It was nice meeting you. Goodbye, Sherlock.' She smiled at him before continuing to walk. The young man nodded and gave her a small smile before going back to his cigarette.

She fully intended to tell John about her meeting with the strange boy when she returned, to tell him about how he had worked out everything about her just by a look. She knew John would call her crazy and that the boy had probably been told about them and that's how he knew, but there was something about this boy she just could not shake. She thought of him all the way home, but when she walked through the door and saw that mountain of brown boxes that needed to be tackled, she just forgot all about him. She forgot to tell John anything about their meeting this morning, and the name Sherlock Holmes was never uttered. John Watson was still completely unaware of his existence.

* * *

><p>Sherlock didn't really like dogs, not usually. He didn't like the way they looked at you, as if they knew all your secrets with one glance. There was something about them, the way they looked at you as if they could see right into your very soul, that was quite unnerving. But he liked this dog, he thought to himself as he patted her. The brown eyes looked friendly and inviting. Brown and white fur, a spaniel of some kind. What had the owner said its name was? Poppy, that was it. And the owner? Sarah. She was called Sarah. Apparently her husband was due to start work at his school on Monday. The old biology teacher, Mr Turner, had retired at the end of term, so the woman's husband was obviously the replacement. Should be interesting, he supposed. School was always the same thing, day in, day out. It would be nice to have at least some change, some excitement, if only for a little while. Soon this new teacher would fade into the background and become part of the furniture, but, for now, while he still had the novelty of being new, he was a little bit interesting.<p>

There was a slight spring in Sherlock's step as he walked towards the library. He spent most of his summer days here, staying away from home as much as possible, and he swung the plastic bag full of library books slightly. The library building, a small, compact, bricked building, was like everything else in Bakerford in that it looked old and slightly quaint, as if it should be painted on the lid of a chocolate box. He pushed those familiar doors open.

'Hello, Sherlock,' came a warm-sounding voice from behind the desk.

'Hello, Mrs. Hudson.' Sherlock smiled, genuine this time. He liked Mrs. Hudson. She was the only person in the entire world who seemed to like having him around. He handed her the books from the bag.

'I've come to give these back,' he said brightly. 'Anything new?'

'No, I'm afraid not.'

He pouted slightly. The library was his most favourite place in the entire world, but most of these books were as old as Mrs. Hudson! He settled himself into a familiar chair by the true-crime section. If there was one thing that fascinated him, it was these books. They were the only things that caught his attention for any length of time. He loved the murder cases and robberies and heists. The why never bothered him, people themselves were boring and tedious, it was the how that really captured his imagination. He loved the police procedure, dusting for fingerprints, looking at things under a microscope. Working everything out like pieces of a puzzle. It was all so very exciting. The excitement and danger of the big cities were a million miles away from the quiet boredom of Bakerford. He wished he lived in a big city. He loved these books, loved these cases, he loved the cold hard facts, felt safe amongst logic. Hours past, and he lost himself amongst the pages.

'Here you go dear.' Mrs. Hudson popped a mug of tea beside Sherlock. 'Brought you some tea, and I thought you might like these.' She handed over a little plate of biscuits.

'Thank you.' Sherlock smiled.

'Just this once dear. I'm your librarian not your housekeeper.' Sherlock gave a small chuckle, and went back to his book. Over the hours, she brought him some more cups of tea and even the odd sandwich or two until, alas, it was closing time.

He walked back down the winding streets towards home, hands in pockets, head down, trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. He snuck down the streets like a ghost or a shadow. Walking up to his front door, he tried the door handle and gave a slight sigh of relief as he realised it was locked. That could only mean one thing — his father was not home. He would have the house to himself for a bit, and that filled him with joy. Being able to come home without having to step on eggshells or worry about his father's mood was nice. He whistled as he turned his key in the lock and walked indoors, hanging his coat up on the rack.

He wandered towards the kitchen, but, as usual, there was very little in terms of food. He made do with a glass of orange juice, an apple, and a couple of handfuls of dry cornflakes before wandering up to his room. Despite being alone, he walked as softly up the stairs as he could, out of habit more than anything else. He entered his room, his sanctuary. Light blue walls and bare essentials in terms of furniture, a single bed, wardrobe, a desk, and a bedside table. No posters or photographs, nothing personal, a few books scattered about and some items of clothing that needed to be put to wash, but nothing that gave anything of his actual personality away. It was sparse and rather bleak. Sherlock quite liked it this way.

Kicking off his shoes, he collapsed onto the bed, lying down and staring at the familiar spot on the ceiling. One more day then school would begin again. He was already dreading it. He remembered how it seemed he had all the time in the world, and summer stretched out for what felt like an eternity. Then suddenly the new school year had snuck up on him. He didn't want to go. There was nothing new they could teach him. He didn't want to see all his old teachers who he knew secretly sneered at the strange boy. He didn't want to do schoolwork, or homework, or exams or having to play rugby in the freezing cold. He didn't want to have to put up with Anderson and Sally Donovan snogging in the hallways, and, most of all, he didn't want to see Jim-fucking-Moriarty who, no doubt, would make his life miserable, as per bloody usual. He picked up his pillow, put it across his face, and screamed, the sound muffled by the material. He wished yet again he was far, far away from here.

He wondered what to do tomorrow, the last day of his summer holiday. It was a Sunday so the library would be shut. Maybe he could go somewhere on his bicycle? He had already been to the stationers to get some new pens and school equipment. His old bag had finally fallen apart, and he couldn't ask his father for money for a new one. He would never give it to him, and besides, that would go against the vow of independence he had taken. So he had snuck into Mycroft's old room and taken a black shoulder bag. It was big enough to hold all his school books and things. It was smart, black leather with two white stripes across the middle. He didn't know why Mycroft had left it behind, after all he had taken those ridiculous umbrellas. Then he remembered Mycroft commenting on how his old bag was falling apart and realised it had been left for him to find.

He decided to leave the decision of what to do till morning. Right now all he wanted to do was relax and enjoy the time he could spend without his father being around. He read one of his books, a dog eared copy of _In Cold Blood_ (a present from Mycroft one Christmas), smoked a Marlboro Light out of his bedroom window, then took a long bath before getting ready for bed. His father returned minutes later, making an horrendous noise, so he took out his iPod (another relic from Mycroft), put the headphones in his ears, put on some music, and turned up the volume as loud as he could till his ears rang. He even hummed along, anything to drown out the sound of his father crashing about. He wondered if he would have that dream again and wake in a cold sweat in the middle of the night. He gave another brief thought to the woman he had met earlier that day and her dog, but only very briefly, then succumbed to sleep.

* * *

><p>John woke up late on Sunday morning. It seemed he had spent the entire day yesterday unpacking, yet everything was still a mess. He wondered if it would ever end. Oh god, please let it end. If he saw another brown box he thought he would scream. Luckily for him, Sarah didn't start her job till next week. He hoped while he was busy at the school she would get it all done or at least give him a house which was remotely liveable. She was off visiting her mother. He'd declined the invitation and wondered why she had to leave so bloody early. It was eleven o'clock for god's sake, on a Sunday.<p>

Poppy jumped up onto the bed and lay down beside him. He looked over at the clock again and realised that by this time tomorrow he would have finished his first two lessons. He felt another wave of nerves wash over him. It was a small school, only form groups in each year. He could manage that easily, but he still worried. As if by magic, as if she could read his thoughts, Poppy gave a small whine and nuzzled his ear, as if to say, 'Stop worrying. It's just new job nerves. You'll be fine, and, in a few weeks, you will look back and wonder what all the fuss was about.' She was right, as usual.

He spent the day lying around, wanting to savour having no stress at all, nothing to do and nowhere to be. He watched crap on TV, listened to the radio, read the paper, normal mundane everyday things. Nothing special. He stared outside his street occasionally and watched life go by. There was an old couple walking slowly down the street, one of them using a stick, their arms interlocking. A few families pushing prams around, taking their children to the nearby park. Some dog walkers and a young man with curly black hair riding his bicycle down the road. All very normal. All quite dull. He made tea and waited for Sarah's return, constantly wondering what the next day would bring.

* * *

><p>A few streets away, in another house which may as well have been a different world, Sherlock Holmes also wondered what the next day would bring. He had cycled and cycled till he was exhausted. Cycled round the town then over the countryside, over hills and fields, through small surrounding villages. There was no particular direction or place he wanted to go, he just rode and rode, savouring the ache of his limbs as he lay in bed that night. Again his father came back late, and again he switched on his iPod to drown out the noise from downstairs. He ignored the noise and thought about the next day. He wished he could stop worrying about it. If he just kept his head down and kept to himself it would all be okay. Maybe things would be different this year? 'Yeah right,' he thought to himself. Yeah right, indeed.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Thanks to Marie for being my Beta.<strong>


	2. Biology

**Thank you for all the reviews, they were lovely and made my day! :) Hugs to all of you amazing creatures.**

**Thank you also to Marie for being my beta, I will learn how to write properly one day, I promise. **

* * *

><p><span>Hands on education. Chapter two<span>.

Biology

_Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. _

John grunted slightly in his sleep then leaned over and switched off the alarm. First day nerves ran through his system as he got up reluctantly out of the warmth of his bed and headed for the shower. Stripping off an old T shirt and pyjama bottoms, he climbed in, flinching slightly at the sudden change in temperature as the warm water cascaded over his skin. He washed quickly all the while, thinking of the day ahead. He had Year Sevens that morning, and he shuddered at the thought. They were new and so was he; it would be a case of the blind leading the blind. Oh well, he hoped they would be too timid and nervous to give him any real trouble. No, the real worry came from the Year Elevens he had after lunch, a slight whiff of fear from him and they would pounce. They were ruthless at that age. One sign of weakness and they would take advantage, the lesson would become chaotic and he wouldn't be able to teach them anything. John knew he shouldn't be so nervous, he was a natural at this. He just needed to get them onside as quickly as he could.

Turning the shower off, he wrapped a towel round his waist and faced himself in the mirror. "Not too bad," he thought as he stared at the middle-aged man reflected back at him. He was a little shorter than average but still in relatively good shape for someone in his mid-thirties. He flexed his muscles in the mirror before laughing at how ridiculous he looked and then squeezed some toothpaste onto his toothbrush. He would need a shave and to flatten his hair before leaving. His look, no doubt, would get scruffier as the year progressed, but he wanted to look impeccable on his first day.

Sarah was downstairs fixing some coffee for them both. She smiled and kissed John on the cheek as she handed him a plate of toast. He was wearing a smart suit and his favourite red and white striped tie. Thank god. She breathed a sigh of relief as her worst fears that he would come down wearing one of those jumpers had not materialised. She wished him good luck for his first day, gave him another quick kiss on the cheek, and he was out the door.

The principal was there to meet him as soon as he arrived. The school was made up of a group of very old buildings and a large playing field around the edges. The principal gave him a quick tour before showing him to his classroom. The room itself was a standard science room, not too shabby either. His desk was at the front in front of a large whiteboard, then there were five rows of tables**. **The walls themselves were bare, he would have to change that. Setting his bag down he took off his jacket and waited for his first students to arrive.

* * *

><p>Sherlock tiptoed around as quietly as he could. His father was snoring loudly on the sofa, and he was desperate not to wake him. Judging by last night, he would have one heck of a hangover. He had a few mouthfuls of cornflakes again for breakfast and shoved an apple in his bag for lunch. He tugged at his school blazer, trying to dispel some of the creases with his hand (he was never very good at ironing) before leaving the house.<p>

Since it only took him fifteen minutes to bike to school, he arrived earlier then everyone else, but he didn't really mind. Waiting around for lessons to begin was a safer bet then hanging around at home risking the wrath of a hung-over parent. He shuddered slightly as he remembered the last run in he had with his father. The bruise had only just about fully faded from his cheek, there was still a faint blotch of red if he looked closely enough. Mrs. Hudson had asked him all sorts of questions, but he simply told her he fell off his bike.

He locked his bike up in the school shed and wandered to his favourite spot in a corner of the playing field. It was out of the way enough to not be spotted by anyone but close enough to people-watch and to be able to hear the school bell so he would not be late. He dug out his pack of cigarettes and smoked one as he watched the crowds shuffle in.

'Did you have a good summer?' Molly, the only person in the entire school who even said more than a word to him, asked him chirpily as he took his seat, waiting for registration to begin.

'No.' he replied immediately. He folded his arms and scowled so she would know not to bother him. It was a well-worn path that they trod virtually every day. Molly, with her neat school uniform and smiling face, would try to engage him in conversation. He would usually refuse unless it was an especially good day or he wanted something. If he didn't know better, he would say Molly had a crush on him. Most of the girls did when they first glanced at him. He was rather striking, not good looking in the classic sense, but even he would admit that despite sometimes looking like something from another planet, there was something in his features that caused hysteria in the minds of others. The allure of him was usually dispelled immediately when they found out what a cold-hearted weirdo he was, but Molly's, however, had persisted. He didn't really have the heart to tell her his particular preferences. He didn't need to be kissed to know what or whom he truly desired. He supposed he should come clean to Molly to spare her feelings, but word would inevitably get around. He didn't want to add 'homosexual' to the long list of ammunition Moriarty had against him. He had enough to deal with without schoolyard homophobia.

She didn't take the hint, and continued, 'That's a shame. I went to France.'

There were a few more attempts at conversation before she gave up and went back to talking with her small group of friends.

'Alright, Freak,' Donovan came in next, her hand linked with Anderson who gave him an unfriendly sneer.

'Ahh, Donovan. How lovely to see you again.' Sherlock grinned, obvious sarcasm dripping over every word. 'Back with Anderson, I see. Tell me, how many times has he dumped you now?'

'Fuck you,' Anderson hissed.

'Don't say that. He would probably enjoy it.' Donovan poked him playfully in the ribs and they both giggled. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

The room fell silent as Jim Moriarty waltzed in with a few of his cronies trailing behind him. Now, if there was an undisputed king of St Barthlomews's secondary school, it was Jim Moriarty. He had the students and even some of the teachers eating out of the palm of his hand. Not that he had any close friends, he simply saw people as objects to be used to do his bidding. He was highly intelligent, yes, but Sherlock saw the same sociopathic tendencies in Moriarty as he did himself. The only difference was Moriarty had the charm to pull off being seen as a regular human being.

'Well, well, well, look what the cat dragged in,' he drawled. Immediately setting his sights on Sherlock, he glided over.

'What do you want, Moriarty?' Sherlock snapped. He didn't want to have to deal with this, not at any time, but especially not first thing on a Monday morning when he was recovering from yet another broken night's sleep.

'Come on now, Holmes. I just want to see how your summer went.'

'My summer was shit. Now leave me alone,' Sherlock hissed back, his arms still folded.

'But don't you want to hear how my summer went, Holmes? I went to Italy, spent two weeks in Rome. Found the girls to be very...accommodating.' He brushed down his school tie, his voice laden with innuendo. A few boys behind him sniggered. Sherlock was about to reply when Miss Adams, their tutor, came bustling in.

'Morning, everyone. I trust you all had a good summer.' There was a murmur around the classroom. 'Right. Now, as you all know, this year is a very important one. The exams you sit this year will affect the rest of your lives.' There was a small groan as she continued her speech about the importance of their exams, how they all needed to apply themselves. Sherlock didn't really pay attention, he had heard it all before.

He only snapped out of his daydream when his new timetable and school journal were plonked down in front of him. He had French first thing. He didn't know why he bothered; he spoke like a native. His heart sank slightly when he saw P.E.. The idea of kicking whatever-shaped ball they had decided on with the Neanderthals that were his classmates filled him with dread. He then felt something slimy hit his cheek and turned quickly to see Moriarty hiding a straw. Spit balls. How very juvenile. Moriarty smiled at him, and he scowled back.

'Have you seen the new biology teacher?' An acne-ridden girl sitting beside Molly giggled inanely to her friends. Sherlock's ears pricked up.

'No. What does he look like?' Molly asked.

'I have,' another interrupted. 'Saw him this morning with the principal. He is well fit,' she said, her wide smile showing off a pair of braces.

'I know! Biology won't be so bad this year if he is teaching us,' the first girl added.

'I wonder if he is married.' There were more giggles.

Sherlock was disappointed. There went his hopes for someone interesting. Being called 'fit' by sixteen year-old girls meant this new teacher would be a preening philistine. Sherlock imagined a man with a mass of product in his hair, wearing Levi jeans and using words like 'cool' and 'awesome' to try to fit in with the kids.

'What's his name again?'

'Mr. Watson, apparently.' They were interrupted by the bell ringing and everyone leaving for the first lesson. Sherlock already couldn't wait for the day to be over.

* * *

><p>John's tongue burnt slightly as he took a long sip of the instant coffee that he found in the teachers' lounge. It was break time, and he was relieved to get his first lessons out of the way. As he had predicted, the Year Seven's treated him with a mixture of fear and awe. They reminded him of very timid and skittish, newborn animals who were completely baffled by the new world around them. However, a few jokes and one simple experiment with some plant slides later, they soon settled in. Like he'd thought, he really was a natural.<p>

'Welcome to St. Brats.' Mr Matthews a long suffering maths teacher of about fifty shook his hand warmly.

'St Brats?' John raised his eyebrow.

'Inside joke. St Bart's, St Brats,' he smiled as if it was the funniest thing ever told. John nodded.

'John. John Watson, nice to meet you,' he continued, greeting his new colleagues, using the knack he had with people to make everyone at ease around him.

Suddenly, a woman stormed into the teacher's lounge, grabbed a mug, slammed it down on the table and then picked up the jar of coffee, muttering something to herself. John was surprised at the scene playing out in front of him. He was even more surprised when, rather than asking her what was wrong, Mr. Matthews just laughed and asked, 'What's he done this time?'

She continued to take her anger out on the coffee, and John worried that she would break that mug with the ferocity with which she was making the hot drink.

'I tried to give him a detention for not doing the homework I set over summer. He gave me one of those glares and then proceeded to tell the class that he could tell from the shape of my tan that my husband had been having an affair and that I had a drinking problem! Of course, it was total pandemonium after that.' All the other teachers gave a small murmur of sympathy as if this was an everyday occurrence.

'I'm sorry, who are we talking about?' The curiosity finally got to John. Whoever they were talking about had obviously made quite a name for himself.

'Oh, one of the Year Elevens. Sherlock Holmes. He is a little...odd. You'll see,' Mr Matthews responded. Ah, troublesome students were always difficult. he had Year Eleven later that afternoon and made a mental note to look out for this Sherlock character.

'Don't know why I bother even trying to teach him. He speaks French better than I can,' she continued to grumble.

'This is Mrs Stevens, she teaches French,' Mr. Matthews said, introducing her to John. 'Mrs Stevens, this is John Watson, the new biology teacher from London.'

They greeted each other with a quiet, 'It's nice to meet you.' They shared awkward smiles followed by a shaking of hands. If he was honest with himself, he would admit that he was quite looking forward to meeting Sherlock and having a lesson with him. He liked a challenge. The reason he did not admit this, not even to himself, was that he didn't want to face the reality that the highlight of his day could well come from a student. No, that thought was depressing and would only make him miserable. He had spent enough time being miserable over the fact that nothing exciting ever happened to him.

* * *

><p>'Come on, Sherlock. The least you could do is pretend you are doing something,' Mr Smith yelled at him. Sherlock shivered and pulled at the battered yellow bib he was wearing. As soon as they had come onto the school playing field, they were split into two teams and given different coloured bibs for each team. His team were being royally thrashed by the opposing red team. The score was currently five-nil. Not that Sherlock really cared. He hated football, just like he hated every sport this stupid school forced him to play. He ignored Smith, preferring to hang round the back of the field doing very little. Unfortunately, some idiot passed him the ball, and he was forced to dribble down the field for a bit towards the red team's goal, hoping to be tackled and lose possession as soon as possible.<p>

'You run like a girl, Holmes.' Moriarty had come up behind him and attempted to tackle him. Sherlock saw a chance for some petty revenge against his arch enemy. He let Moriarty come a little closer then dug his elbow sharply into the young man's ribs with as much force as he could manage. The boy fell down winded. Dribbling quickly away from Moriarty, he kicked the ball as hard as he could, and, to everyone's surprise, the ball sailed past the goal keeper and collided with the back of the net. The whistle was blown and some boys patted him on the shoulder.

'Nice one, Holmes.'

He blushed slightly, than tried to pretend that the goal meant nothing to him.

He paid for it, though. Everyone had missed what Sherlock had done, assuming Moriarty had just tripped up over his own feet, so he was after justice.

'You're a cunt, Holmes,' Moriarty said, still clutching his chest. He then shoved Sherlock so hard he landed with a thump onto the ground, mud covering his shorts. Something snapped in Sherlock, and he got up, curled his hand into a fist and hurled it as hard as he could in Moriarty's general direction. Moriarty swung back at him, and soon they were wrestling each other to the ground.

'Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight!' the boys started to yell forming a circle around them. Next thing he knew, Mr. Smith was pulling them apart.

'Enough. Get off the pitch. Go on, go for early showers. Both of you,' he commanded.

'You'll pay for this, Holmes,' Moriarty warned, wiping a bloody nose on his sleeve. Sherlock knew he would, but, for now, seeing the blood rush out of Moriarty's nose was enough to make it all worthwhile.

Sherlock knew there was no point prolonging the wait for Moriarty's own brand of revenge, so he spent lunchtime waiting for whatever was to come. Rather than hiding like a coward, he stood in the middle of the playground in full view of everyone. However, Moriarty obviously had other things planned, and left Sherlock entirely alone, leaving him wondering what exactly he had planned for him.

* * *

><p>'Sherlock Holmes?'<p>

'Here,' Sherlock answered as Mr. Watson took the register. He had managed to get a seat on the table right at the back. Everyone else treated him with the usual fear and loathing, so there was a couple of seats left empty near him. Perfect.

Sherlock stared at the new teacher, remembering the conversation he'd overheard that morning. Mr. Watson was not exactly a knock-out looks wise. He was surprised the girls had labelled him fit as he was quite average looking. But there was something about the man that Sherlock couldn't quite put his finger on. He looked solid and safe, like the type of person you could depend on. He had an earthiness to him, a home grown beauty that very few men possessed. On paper, he should be the most ordinary looking, unassuming man, but, in person, Sherlock and the entire class just could not take their eyes off him.

'Right, I only have two rules in my class: no chewing gum and no texting dribble to each other on your phones. Finally, if you behave like an immature dickhead, then I'll put you in with the Year Sevens. Understood?' There was a titter as the students were not used to a teacher who swore. Sherlock watchedas Mr Watson continued to hold their attention with ease. He told jokes, made them laugh and hold onto his every word. Sherlock was surprised. He had never seen a new teacher fit in so quickly. Normally boundaries were tested to establish the limit to how far he or she could be pushed, but even Moriarty was on his best behaviour, not out of fear but out of choice. Everyone wanted to please Mr. Watson.

'Right, I'm going to set you a small test, just to see where you're all at.' There was a groan of annoyance around the room. 'I know, I know. But don't worry, it won't last long. And if you're good, I might let you leave early. I know I've had enough of this place for one day, and I'm sure you lot have too.' There was a small burst of excitement as the test was handed out. Everyone rushed around, grabbing pens and scribbling answers down as soon as they received their work. Everyone seemed determined to please him, win his approval and praise by showing him how intelligent they were. It made Sherlock feel slightly nauseous.

Sherlock received his test, gave it a quick glance and then began. It wasn't long, only a handful of questions on the most basic biology. He could name all the different parts of the cell and the chambers of the heart in his sleep. It got a bit more complicated towards the end, but in ten minutes he was finished, even finding time to correct a grammatical error that had been made on the last question.

Putting down his pen, he stretched his arms and looked around at his class mates who were either writing furiously or chewing their pens in confusion.

'Problem, Sherlock?' a voice asked him.

'No, sir.'

'Then why have you stopped writing?' Soon all the eyes in the room were on him.

'I've finished,' he stated simply.

Mr. Watson put down his mug of tea that he had been drinking. 'Well, bring it to me then.'

Sherlock got up out of his seat and walked the length of the room to Mr. Watson's desk at the front. Sherlock handed him his test, and he smiled back. To his horror, Sherlock blushed.

'Thank you, Sherlock, you can sit back down. Try not to disturb anyone. The rest of you, carry on.'

* * *

><p>True to his word, Watson let them out ten minutes early. They all rushed out on a cloud of joy that the first day of school was over. Sherlock headed towards the shed to collect his bike. He saw that both of his tires were flat. Someone had let all the air out of them, and it didn't take a genius to figure out who. Walking his bike out of the school, he kept an eye out for Moriarty, but he couldn't see where the little weasel had gone.<p>

He was halfway home when he came across him, standing, looking smug in the middle of the street, a gang of boys behind him.

'What do you want, Moriarty?' Sherlock stood his ground.

'I told you I would make you pay.' Moriarty glared at him, his voice cold as ice.

'I see you don't have the guts to face me alone.' Sherlock nodded towards the group of boys gathered behind Moriarty.

'Come on now, Sherlock. You should know by now that I never get my hands dirty.'

Suddenly, a hand grabbed his shoulder, and he was pushed down to the ground, his bike falling behind him. Moriarty smiled as punches and kicks rained down on Sherlock. He couldn't fight back, it was futile as there were so many of them. All he could do was curl up in a ball and try and protect his head with his hands.

After what seemed like an eternity, they finally had enough and stopped. Sherlock lay very still on the street until he was sure they had all gone. He then uncurled his body and slowly picked himself up off the ground. He was in so much pain he could barely think straight. There was a ringing in his ears and a taste of blood in mouth. He felt warm, sticky blood dribble down his nose, and watched it stain his white school shirt. Picking his bike up, he walked the rest of the way home, taking twice as long as it should have because he could barely walk.

When he finally reached his house, he immediately ran upstairs to the bathroom and filled the sink up with warm water. Shedding his clothes, he inspected the damage done in the mirror. There were already large bruises forming on his delicate, white skin, large grazes on his knees and hands where he had fallen, and a garish cut above his left eye. He tended to the wounds as best he could with the warm water, a cloth and some antiseptic cream he found in the medicine cabinet.

When he was done, he put the stained shirt to wash and collapsed on the bed, yet again finding himself staring at the familiar spot on the ceiling. He wasn't entirely sure how to feel. Physically, he felt a tremendous amount of pain, but, emotionally, he was entirely blank. He didn't know if this was the right emotional response to dealing with being beaten-up. He tried to cast his mind back to when he had been able to feel properly. He drew a blank and wondered if there had ever really been such a time.

Moriarty must have decided Sherlock had learnt his lesson because he left him alone for the rest of the week. Sherlock went back to being entirely invisible in the school, a social outcast. He was a ghost, an eerie figure hiding in the shadows, just like he wanted to be. The only time he made himself known was when he baffled the teachers with his intellect.

* * *

><p>Come Friday, the first week of a new school year was over, and John Watson had cemented himself as the school's most popular teacher. There was a distinct lack of anyone bunking off Biology and roughly ninety-five percent of exercise books in the school that belonged to the female students currently had 'I love Mr. Watson' written in neat little hearts scrawled over them. The remaining five percent were exercise books for Biology, and the girls were obviously too shy to share their crush with the object of their desire. John also took to teaching boys' cricket after school on Wednesdays, which stoked so much interest that an additional session was soon added.<p>

John was quite surprised at the female attention he was receiving. Hs colleagues were giving him quite a bit of stick for it, and wherever he went there was a chorus of giggles as girls poked their friends and pointed at him. He certainly didn't't expect anyone to fancy him. Not that he thought he was bad looking but he was, after all, just a biology teacher. When he was at school, it had always been the Art or English teachers, with their cool clothes and fancy haircuts, which the girls swooned over.

He found all this female attention strangely enjoyable. He even flirted lightly with a few of them. He knew it wouldn't last. He was new, and soon they would move on. He would be old news in a blink of an eye. If a week was a long time in politics, it was an eternity in a school.

He wished Sarah could see this. She still complained of a headache every time he tried to get her into bed. He wondered why it was so difficult getting his own wife to sleep with him. She'd wanked him off a few times, but her heart wasn't in it, and he could tell she was only doing it for his benefit. As soon as he came, her back was turned and it was good night. It never used to be like this. In the early days of their marriage, they'd fucked so often John thought his dick would fall off. But now, nothing. He hoped that once they were settled and the stress of her new job was over, they could go back to shagging like rabbits. But he wasn't holding his breath.

Now the weekend stretched out in front of him. He had been invited to the local with Lestrade on Saturday night, and he was looking forward to it. The men had spoken a few more times since their first meeting, and Lestrade was turning into a solid friend. Sarah and his wife, Kate, had become friendly. He knew the middle-class blood sport known as a dinner party would soon be arranged.

That afternoon he marked the tests he had set the Year Elevens. They had done relatively well, some much better than others. However, one really stood out. In fact so detailed were the answers that he wondered if Sherlock had cheated or kept a biology textbook hidden on his person. The boy had even corrected a small grammatical error in the last question. John just smiled at the cheekiness of it. He gave Sherlock full marks and scrawled 'Biology teacher in your former life Sherlock?' at the bottom. He read through Sherlock's test again, just to make sure he hadn't been seeing things. Nope, he really was quite brilliant.

* * *

><p>Sherlock threw the envelope into his desk draw and scowled. Mycroft had sent him some money through the post and his guts churned in hatred. He didn't need his charity. He was perfectly fine and capable of taking care of himself. He didn't need anyone, least of all his older brother sticking his big fat nose into his business. Why couldn't Mycroft just leave him alone? Besides, where did he get the money from? He was a student after all, and weren't they supposed to be permanently broke? He decided to spite his brother by using some of the money to buy cigarettes, knowing smoking was a habit Mycroft despised.<p>

He heard the front door slam and the sound of someone stomping up the stairs.

'Where are you boy?' came a loud voice.

Sherlock stayed silent, frozen in place. His father burst into his room, swaying around and holding onto the door handle for balance. His face was red and puffy, his breath reeking of booze. A mixture of beer and vodka, Sherlock noted.

'What do you want?' he snapped, and his father scowled back.

'That is no way to talk to me, boy,' he hissed. Sherlock made a run for it, but the door to his room was blocked. He received a smack to the cheek so hard he fell to the floor.

'Leave me alone!" he yelled, but this only angered his father more.

'I'm gonna teach you some respect,' he spat, reaching for his belt buckle and pulling the strip of leather out of the hoops in his jeans. He struck the belt down on Sherlock, causing the boy to cry out in pain. He hit him again and again until Sherlock finally lost count.

'What did I do to deserve a son like you? Wish it was you that had been in that car,' he snarled. This was the closest he ever came to mentioning Sherlock's mother.

When he was done, he slammed Sherlock's door shut and left the boy cowering on his bedroom floor. He refused to cry, refused to give his father the satisfaction. He told no one of the way his father treated him. No one knew, not even Mycroft. Before his brother left, it had just been snide remarks and heavy drinking. Their father left Mycroft alone. When his brother was at home, Sherlock had some protection because his father knew he wouldn't get away with his behaviour in front of Mycroft. But as soon as Mycroft left, he felt free to treat the younger Holmes brother however he wanted. Sherlock was his favourite punching bag, a release for the anger his father felt at the loss of his wife.

He didn't know why, but his mind suddenly drifted to the smile Mr. Watson had given him when he had handed him his test earlier that week. It had been so kind and friendly, something Sherlock hadn't experienced in a very long time. Even through the pain, the blood, and the white noise in his head, he felt himself blush.


	3. Chemistry

**Hello everyone! So sorry this took so long to upload, my laptop got a virus and I had to send it away to get fixed so boo! Well anyway Hugh is safe and well and running smoothly (yes I have named my laptop, what of it? :p) Anyway I hope this is worth the wait. Thanks for Marie for being a lovely beta and making it look like I have a vague grasp of the English language. Leave me a review and let me know what you think. xxxxxx**

* * *

><p><span>Hands On Education. <span>

Chapter Three.

Chemistry.

He didn't move. He couldn't move. It was as if he was glued to his bedroom carpet. His body simply gave up as soon as he attempted to shift limbs that felt heavy and made of stone. Sherlock lay on the floor covered in his own blood and humiliation. He lay perfectly still, the occasional blink the only indication that he was even alive, though he felt entirely dead inside. Putting two fingers on his wrist he counted his pulse, the faint little beating of his heart that refused to give out. He waited till it was dark outside and the house had been eerily quiet for more than an hour before he picked himself up and then collapsed onto his bed.

Screwing up his eyes until his entire world was dark, he found himself consumed by the infinite space inside his mind. There was a faded poster in one of the classrooms telling them that if they were being bullied to tell someone, but what do you do if your own father is the bully? He wished it was just Moriarty that struck him, at least then he could close the door of his home and escape it all. A part of him reveled in facing everything alone, as if a reliance on others was a sign of weakness. He was fighting a private war that only he knew about, and he had become spectacularly good at covering it up by making sure to hide the bruises he was given, staying silent, keeping everyone at arm's length in case he slipped up. Eventually his father would drink himself into an early grave, and he would be free, but not yet. He drifted into a dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>Again, Sherlock left earlier then was necessary on Monday morning. After what had happened last week with his bike tyres, he decided to walk to school. He smoked a cigarette on the way and took the long way round through the school's car park. He was heading to the familiar spot on the field when a car pulled up next to him.<p>

'Hey, Sherlock,' he was greeted by the beaming face of his Biology teacher, Mr. Watson. 'You're here early.' He made a show of checking his watch.

Sherlock didn't respond to that remark, instead just replying, 'Hello, sir.'

'Goodness, what happened to you?' he gestured towards Sherlock's black eye.

Sherlock shrugged slightly. 'Fell off my bike,' he lied.

Mr Watson stared at him for a few moments, not entirely sure whether or not to believe him, but he decided to drop the subject… for now.

'Well, you might as well make yourself useful. I need some help carrying some things up to my room, and I'll make it worth your while.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Worth my while?' he thought doubtfully. He was fairly sure John didn't have anything he wanted.

'Yeah. You help me, and not only will you get out of morning registration, but I won't tell anyone about that cigarette.' He nodded to Sherlock's hand.

Reluctantly, he helped Mr Watson, carrying up a plastic skeleton up to his classroom. John carried some rolled-up posters and a box. In his room, he handed Sherlock some drawing pins, and they set about putting up the posters on the walls. Most were pictures and diagrams of parts of the human body and another one on digestion, and one the eye, all in lurid bright colours and covered in arrows and bold lettering. He stuck the skeleton next to the whiteboard.

'Check this out.' John gestured to the box, then, taking off the lid, he brought out a skull.

'Is that real?' Sherlock asked.

Mr Watson rolled his eyes. 'Of course it's real.' He handed it to Sherlock for a closer look.

Sherlock held it very carefully, feeling the edges of the eye sockets.

'Had it since uni,' Mr Watson told him.

He nodded, his eyes never leaving the skull as he was totally captivated. Turning the skull gently in his hands, he inspected all sides carefully. 'Female. The brow ridges are not very wide and the features are quite delicate. Judging by the tooth wear and how the cranial ridges have fused, late twenties, I reckon. It's beautiful,' he finished.

Mr Watson laughed again, astounded at Sherlock's skill. 'Well, if you like it so much, it's yours.'

Sherlock was taken aback. 'Mine? Really?'

'Yeah. Sarah's been on at me for years to get rid of it; looks like I've found it a nice home.'

The school day was utter hell, as usual. He was bored as soon as lessons began and he was away from John. The only thing he had to look forward to was Biology later that day. The box with the skull in it was still on his desk, and John had promised he could collect it as soon as the school bell rang. He could not believe he would soon be in possession of it. No one had ever given him something before… well, not something that he actually wanted. The day passed at a snail-like pace, the only highlight coming when he caught sight of John in the corridors or walking towards the teachers' lounge at break.

He watched as the other students still fawned over Mr Watson and felt a feeling of superiority. They may follow the teacher about, write his name on their books, but John was giving _him_ the skull. Him, not them. He would even say he felt smug.

Biology finally came, and Sherlock practically ran to the classroom. He was the first to arrive, and Mr Watson gave him his usual welcoming smile.

'Have you changed your mind about the skull?' Sherlock wheezed.

'Nope, of course not. See me after class and it's yours.'

He nodded and went to his seat, watching the room fill up with his classmates.

For the entire time Sherlock had been at St Bart's he had never answered a question a teacher asked. He knew all the answers, of course, but kept silent. Now, in John Watson's room, he was putting his hand up so many times he lost count. He was desperate to please John. He wanted to prove how clever he was and that he deserved the skull. In a way, he wanted to impress John, to make John notice _him, _not the cretins that were his classmates. Everyone fought over Mr. Watson's attention, so, to deal with the competition, he had to use his strength. Something he had that they didn't, and that was his brainpower. And he was damn good at Biology.

Mr Watson handed back the tests they had done the previous week. As he had expected, Sherlock got full marks. What he did not expect was the comment that was scrawled under his mark.

_Biology teacher in your former life Sherlock?_

He pouted, was he being made fun of? He thought answering all the questions correctly would please John? Wait, maybe Mr Watson was making a joke. He made a lot of jokes. Was he trying to have a joke with him? No other teacher had ever tried humour with him.

The bell rang, and Sherlock found himself the proud owner of an adult female skull. As soon as he got home, he took it out of the box and spent the evening examining it carefully. Noting the shape of it, colour, texture, weight, everything. Mr Watson was right, it was real, so very, very real. And it was his. All his.

* * *

><p>John tickled Poppy behind the ears, the dog perched half on the sofa and half on his lap. He sipped on a glass of red that Sarah had given him, and he was watching an old repeat of <em>Top Gear. <em>He could hear Sarah making dinner in the kitchen. It smelt good, whatever it was. Some kind of fancy risotto recipe she was trying out, he thought. The doorbell rang.

'I'll get it.' Sarah emerged, full of life, from the kitchen, an apron tied round her waist. John turned the T.V. off and shoved Poppy off his lap, the dog whining in annoyance.

'Mum, Dad,' she greeted the party with a hug and a kiss as they came inside. John too went up to greet them but with much less enthusiasm than his wife. His father-in-law handed him a bottle of wine as a contribution to the evening, which he was eternally grateful for.

'So how are you getting on? I see you're all unpacked.' Sarah's mum glanced round their new home clearly impressed with what she saw. She and her daughter shared similar tastes. Not that that mattered, they could have lived in a cardboard box and the old woman would've still raved about how great it was to have them close by and away from that big, bad city.

'Fine, it's all fine,' John lied. Sarah may have taken to this place like a duck to water, but he had not.

'Let's eat shall we.' He showed them to the dining room where the cutlery had already been laid out. Wine was poured, and risotto was served. It wasn't half bad, and John wondered when Sarah had turned into such a domestic goddess. In London they used to live on takeaways and whatever restaurant they fancied. John missed that. He found himself missing a lot of things. John didn't speak much as the three chatted; he found he had nothing to say to any of them. He simply nodded, drank his wine, and ate.

'So, you know Bakerford is a perfect place to start raising children?'

'Mum,' Sarah pretended to scold, but there was no denying the smile that crept onto her face.

'Well, we're not getting any younger and neither are you two,' Sarah's mother continued.

'What my wife is trying to say,' Sarah's dad reached over and threaded his fingers through his wife's hand, 'is to hurry up and give us grandkids.'

Everyone laughed. Everyone, that is, except John, who gave a half-hearted smile and lowered his head. He dropped his gaze to the half-eaten risotto and found that he had suddenly lost his appetite.

'Are you alright, John? You're awfully quiet this evening,' Sarah's mother remarked.

John opened his mouth to offer some sort of excuse when Sarah interrupted.

'Oh don't mind him, he's in mourning.'

'Mourning?' her mother asked.

'Yes, I finally managed to convince him to get rid of that skull he has. ' Sarah sounded chuffed, as if forcing her husband to get rid of the skull was something to be proud of, a noble achievement worthy of boasting about to her parents like she would've about success on an exam.

John wanted to leave. He loved that skull, and even though he knew Sherlock would take very good care of it and it would be better off in his care then in the classroom where it could easily be broken or stolen, it was hard not to shake the idea that he had given a part of himself away. Then he kicked himself for being so emotional over a skull.

He remembered how Sherlock's entire face had lit up as he was given the skull. He had never seen an expression quite like it. He wasn't sure why all the teachers distrusted, even feared, the young man. John really enjoyed teaching him. He had given Sherlock the skull because he knew all Sherlock needed was someone to be nice to him. The young man had some strange quirks, but ever since John had heard his name being spoken in the teachers' lounge, he had felt a strange magnetism to Sherlock. They were both outsiders. John liked that Sherlock was too clever for his own good. There was something about him that made John want to be around him.

Unaware of her husband's misery, Sarah declared the evening a success. As soon as her parents left, she flung her arms around him and kissed him on the lips. She then lowered her head slightly before nibbling on his neck.

'What do you say we try for a baby tonight?' she whispered in his ear then slid a delicate hand down to the waistband of his boxers. Not even the offer of sex could break him out of the terrible mood he was in.

'Not tonight.' When he pushed her away gently, she looked concerned.

'What's wrong, John?'

'Nothing's wrong. I just don't feel like it.'

Her confusion was written all over her face. 'But you've been almost tearing at my clothes all week! Is this about kids? Don't listen to my parents. We have all the time in the world. If you don't want to try for a baby, we still have those condoms in the bathroom.'

He was starting to get angry now and couldn't keep it out of his voice. 'For fuck's sake, Sarah, I don't want to have sex, okay?' he hissed then grabbed his jacket.

'Where are you going?'

'I need some air,' he replied, slamming the front door behind him as he left. He wandered about for as long as he could, knowing Sarah would stay up until he returned so they could talk about the argument they had just had. If there was one thing John didn't want to do, it was talk. He just wanted to be left alone.

Finding a bench and sitting down, he wondered what he should do. He was deeply unhappy here in Bakerford. He was on the verge of begging Sarah to move back to London. He contemplated asking for a divorce. He loved Sarah, but not in the way he once did. He remembered his life before marriage. When he'd been single, he'd enjoyed himself with both men and women. But this was about more than just his marriage, he knew something was wrong with his life, something was missing. Even before he left London, he knew something just was not right. He just could not figure out what it was, and he'd had plenty of friends to distract him. Now he could no longer ignore the gaping hole in himself. He seemed to have everything, a nice house, a good job, a loving wife. So why was he so bloody miserable? His mind still racing, he admitted defeat and headed home. Ready to face the barrage of questions from Sarah, he had already settled on the excuse of stress at work. He could talk to Sarah about anything, but not this. No one could know he was completely dead behind the eyes.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stared at himself in the bathroom mirror again, the new bruises from his father mixing into the old ones from Moriarty's gang. His body was a patchwork of dark purple and yellow. He could be quite vain sometimes, taking pride in the way he looked, but right now that was all out of the window. How could you care how you looked when your father gives you a black eye?<p>

He heard the faint sound of the T.V. set from downstairs and the faint noise of a crowd. His father was probably watching the football. He wondered if the man was drinking again, but he didn't want to know. All he wanted to do was run and hide away from this nightmare that he soon hoped to wake up from. He hated that he was so wrapped up in his own self pity, preferring not to let himself feel anything, but days like this were unavoidable when he bore the reminders of his father's attacks so clearly on his body.

He slipped quietly back into his own room and curled up on the bed. He wanted to get out of the house. His limbs ached, and he wanted to stay lying down, but the sounds downstairs reminded him of the constant threat. His father's mood swings meant that, no matter how Sherlock felt, the outside world pulled at him like a magnet.

His mobile rang as Mycroft's name lit up the screen, but he ignored it. He had no desire to speak to him, he had no desire to speak to anyone. However, the missed call from Mycroft reminded him that he had some money, and suddenly the world seemed all the brighter. With money in his pocket, there were things he could do, places he could visit. There was a new German film out today which he wanted to see. He knew the local art house cinema was playing it because he had seen an advert for it in the paper. It was a long way, but he could do with the walk, the fresh air would do him good. So, he took out the envelope of money from Mycroft, shoved some notes into his pocket followed by his house key and a packet of cigarettes, and grabbed his jacket. Years of practice meant slipping out of the house undetected was easy.

Bakerford Picture House was a lovely, red-bricked, Victorian building. It had opened in the early years of the Twentieth Century. Sherlock found the new multiplexes so soulless and uninviting, but this theatre had such charm. Bright lights lit up the entrance despite being early evening, and film posters were everywhere. The cinema was typically busy, full to the brim with the Saturday evening crowd. He gave a small sigh at the length of the queue, hoping he would still get a seat, when he heard a voice behind him.

'Fancy meeting you here.'

'Mr Watson,' he stammered, still not sure of the right way to behave when meeting his teachers outside of school. Honestly, was there anywhere in this town he could go without bumping into his Biology teacher? He saw an arm try to slip round his teacher's waist, but John did not respond to his wife's touch. She gave him a warm smile, and he remembered their brief meeting. No dog this time.

'This is Sherlock Holmes, one of my pupils,' John said by way of an introduction.

'We've met. Bumped into him while I was walking Poppy. Hello, Sherlock. Goodness, what happened to you?' She squinted her eyes and peered at the large, black bruise that had formed under Sherlock's eye.

'Fell off my bike,' Sherlock mumbled.

She nodded her head, and her face gave out an expression of sympathy. Sherlock felt relief that she believed him and his dark secret was still intact.

'Are you seeing the new film?' Mr Watson asked, eager to change the subject. Sarah may not have noticed the nerve she had struck, but he had. He could tell Sherlock was lying, but he didn't want to pry… not in public anyway.

Sherlock nodded again.

'You should join us!' Sarah exclaimed as both the men shuffled uncomfortably.

'Okay then.' John found his politeness getting the better of him. 'I'll get the tickets.'

Sherlock tried to hand John a worn ten pound note, but, ever the gentlemen, John refused. While he was gone Sarah asked him about school.

'How is John getting on?'

'Fine. All the girls fancy him,' he replied then winced, guessing this was not the best thing to say to his teacher's wife. Luckily, Sarah just laughed.

'He's kept that quiet, though I'm not surprised. He is terrible at knowing when women like him. When we first met, I practically had to kiss him to let him know I liked him.'

Sherlock blushed, not really wanting to know such personal details about his teacher. Fortunately, Mr Watson arrived back with the tickets, a small bag of popcorn, and a coke which he handed to Sherlock.

'You look like you need it. A strong gust of wind, and you will float away,' John said.

Sherlock went bright red and wondered how often he would do this in front of his Biology teacher. He wanted to live up to his reputation with Mr Watson as being cold and mysterious, not constantly turning the colour of a tomato. He wasn't sure if any of the regular teachers would buy popcorn and watch films with their students, but, then again, he wasn't a regular student. And John was certainly not a regular teacher.

'Don't listen to him, Sherlock,' Sarah scolded. 'He is just jealous now he has a podge.'

Sherlock felt the sudden need to interrupt Sarah and tell her that John was perfect just the way he was, but he kept quiet.

'Come on, the film is about to start.'

Sherlock followed the couple into the cinema. They found some seats near the back and made themselves comfortable, John taking a seat in between Sarah and Sherlock. John leaned an arm onto the arm rest that Sherlock's hand occupied, the brushing of skin caused them both to jump and pull away quickly. He apologized, and the lights in the room faded.

It was only when the room went completely dark and the trailers began to roll that Sherlock realised just how closely he was sitting next to his teacher. The strands of his cable knit, oatmeal coloured jumper lightly tickled his arm. Sherlock found his body leaning into this most subtle of touches. He tried to lose himself in the film, but he could not relax, the close proximity of his teacher making his heart feel like it could beat out of his chest. His palms felt hot and sweaty even though he was sitting in just a shirt and the cinema was air conditioned. He had never felt so awkward in his entire life, but when John got up to go to the loo, he felt the loss in the seat next to him immediately. He constantly looked at the door waiting for his return.

The film carried on playing over the next few hours, but Sherlock felt just as consumed by the nervous energy that he'd had at the start. When the film finished and the credits rolled, Sherlock found one part of himself thanking god it was over and another wanting to stay in the seat with John beside him.

It was pouring with rain when they stepped outside. Sherlock zipped up his coat and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, trying to shield himself as best he could from the downpour.

'How are you getting home?'

'Walking,' he replied to Sarah's question.

'Nonsense, John and I will give you lift. Come on, our car is this way.'

Again, two sides of himself wrestled within his head. He felt utterly awkward and embarrassed and wanted, raining or not, to run very, very quickly very, very far away. But another part of him wanted to get in that car just to squeeze out some more time with his teacher. He had no clue what the hell was wrong with him.

John drove. Sherlock sat behind him in the back seat staring out of the window and giving them directions back to his house. Sarah insisted on going over every scene in the film, giving her opinions as if she were a critic on the radio.

'What did you think, Sherlock?'

'I was good. I liked it,' Sherlock mumbled in reply. 'The lead actress was pretty good. What's her name?'

'Err, Penelope something. I'm not sure,' John interrupted.

'Surprised you don't know, darling. You were practically licking the screen whenever she was on.' Sarah laughed, but Sherlock detected an undercurrent of bitterness directed at John.

'I don't care. She was fit,' John replied.

There was an awkward silence, then a song came on the radio that caused John to leap in excitement and immediately turn the volume up.

'Oh, I love this song. God, I haven't heard it in years!'

Sherlock didn't recognise the music, he just smiled as he watched John begin to sing along then start to tap out the beat on the steering wheel.

'I apologise for my husband, Sherlock,' Sarah laughed.

Despite himself, Sherlock found himself laughing too, as if John singing along to some song on the radio was the funniest thing in the entire world. The lights went green, and they pulled away. Sherlock wondered if this was what it was like having friends then immediately dispelled this thought. He didn't do friends.

Too soon, they pulled up outside his house. Sherlock thanked them for the lift home then bounded up to the garden path through the rain. He heard the car pull away as he opened his front door. Walking into the hallway he took off his shoes and hung his coat up on the rack. He walked into the kitchen and flicked on the kettle before grabbing his mug out of the sink and rooting round for a tea bag.

'Where have you been?' his father snapped as he came into the kitchen. He had obviously heard the car pull up outside the house.

Immediately, Sherlock felt sick with worry. "Please, not again. Please," he thought, seeing the beer can in his father's hand.

'Out,' he stated simply. 'Cinema.'

'Cinema? Since when did you get the money to go to the pictures?'

'Friend paid.' He didn't want to tell his father about the money Mycroft had sent. Besides it was half true; Mr Watson had paid for his ticket.

His father began to laugh, a bitter humourless laugh. 'Friend? Since when do you have friends?'

'They've just moved here.' Sherlock felt uncomfortable under his father's scrutiny.

'Liar, tell me the truth, ' his father hissed.

'I just did,' he snapped back. He wanted to leave, to get away as quickly as he could, so he headed for the stairs.

'Don't walk away while I'm speaking to you,' his father hissed at him again, but Sherlock ignored him, heading to his bedroom.

Lying on his bed, he held the skull up to his face again and stared into the empty eye sockets. He was confused. Mr Watson had given him a skull as a gift. He had also paid for his cinema ticket and given him a lift home. He had written a joke on his test paper, for god's sake! Why was he being so nice to him? No one was nice to him. He didn't understand it. He didn't understand why he blushed whenever Mr Watson spoke to him, why he had butterflies in his stomach whenever he was close, or why he wanted to call him 'John' and have it be him that got to put his arm round his waist when they went to the cinema. Did he fancy Mr Watson? Everyone else in the school did, but he wasn't like everyone else! They were dull, boring, and uninteresting. He didn't want to be like them. He would be giggling like a schoolgirl and writing his name in love hearts over his exercise books next. He couldn't fancy Mr Watson.

He imagined Mr Watson kissing him like the characters did in the film he had just seen, and, to his horror, he felt himself tingle slightly. Not in a bad way at all, but in a way that made him feel lightheaded, as if he were made of air. Thinking of his Biology teacher made him feel...strange, very strange indeed. A way he had never felt before in his entire life. He wanted nothing more than to stretch out and feel what Mr Watson's skin felt like underneath his fingertips, but at the same time, he felt so awkward around him, as if something were clouding up his brain. He also felt something else, something strange and new. His jeans felt impossibly tight. He reached down a hand and realised that his cock had grown hard. Not just hard, but rock solid. This was quite unusual. Sure, he woke up in the mornings with erections, but they always disappeared quickly. He had never gotten one thinking about someone else before. This was very odd indeed. He would need to investigate this further. He wondered if there was anything in the library about these things. He would look tomorrow. This recent turn of events was most unexpected.


	4. Eyes Open

**Well howdy strangers, bet you have forgotten about me and this story haven't you? Well it's back, sorry its taken so long, believe me I feel awful but now i have graduated uni and all back at home doing pretty much nothing I can concentrate on this, aren't you the lucky ones. I hope you like this!**

**Finally a humongous thank you to Marie for being my beta, she is awesome. My grammar makes small children cry so she deserves a round of applause and a very big G+T. Love you honeybunch. **

* * *

><p>'Loss of motivation, lack of enjoyment in normal activities, poor appetite, feelings of tiredness, guilt and uselessness, I'm afraid Mr Watson these are all classic symptoms of depression.'<p>

John looked at the middle-aged doctor, he glanced down to look at all the pictures of smiling kids that surrounded her desk – smart, middle-class children just like his students. They made him feel sick. A plant on the windowsill provided the only splash of colour in an otherwise completely white and sanitary room. The blinds on the window were cutting out most of the bright sunlight. He had a slight distrust of doctors; they seemed to know everything about a person just from one look. Sometimes it was as if they knew their patients better than they knew themselves, and John found that rather unnerving. He had travelled to the doctor's surgery in the neighbouring village of Little Flossop. It was half the size of Bakerford but it was a very similar, picture postcard, chocolate box, self-satisfied, white bread community. He was worried that if he went to the doctor's in Bakerford he would run into Sarah, and he really didn't feel like explaining why he needed to see a doctor. How exactly could one explain to someone the feeling of emptiness, the feeling that something was missing even if that something was unknown?

'I'll write you out a prescription for a course of anti depressants. Come back and see me in a few weeks and let me know how you are getting on.' She printed out the prescription and handed it to him. John knew it was silly, but he immediately hated the doctor. She acted like she understood but she didn't, no matter how much she nodded and pretended. She didn't know what it was like in his head, what it felt like to be him or to think like him.) He left the office without a backward glance and knew he would not be back. He wouldn't even take any of the pills the doctor had prescribed because he didn't think they would solve whatever it was going on inside him. Whatever salvation he might find, he now knew he wasn't to be found in a doctor's office.

Sitting in his car, he rested his head on his hand and felt utterly let down. He wasn't sure what he had expected from the trip, but this was not it. He didn't want to be put on a course of pills and told come back in a few weeks. He felt hollow, as if he was living in a shell and watching his life flitter in front of his eyes, feeling absolutely nothing. Looking back, he should have known this would happen; after all he did have the classic signs of depression, even if he didn't think that was what was wrong with him. He also felt his problems were so complex that he couldn't just take a pill and have it all go away. He sighed and felt very annoyed with himself for being so naïve as to think that going to the doctor wouldn't involve medicine. Of course that's what they would prescribe him, in the same way that if he went to the pub they would prescribe him beer, a priest would tell him to pray to God and a whore would tell him to go fuck something.

He screwed up the prescription the doctor had given him and flung it on the passenger seat. He didn't want medication, he just wanted someone to explain to him why the hell he was feeling this way. He wanted someone to tell him why he was so dam tired all the time and why life had lost its sheen, why he didn't genuinely smile, why it was a struggle to get out of bed in the morning as if some invisible weight was pulling him down and why his entire life felt like it was being lived by someone else. Pills wouldn't stop the crippling loneliness he felt. He just wanted someone, anyone who would understand the way he felt, he just wanted to live his life like he used to, laugh with his friends when they came around, make love to his wife and not feel like he was fucking up every day of his life. He didn't want to be a ghost, and he didn't want it to be forever night inside his heart. He just wanted to be okay. Was that really too much to ask? He didn't think he was depressed; he just knew there was something missing from his life, and he wouldn't feel right until he found it.

He wondered if everything was as good in London has he remembered it. Maybe he was looking at everything through rose tinted glasses and his hatred of Bakerford was simply exacerbating the situation. Maybe he had always felt this emptiness and was only just noticing it now he didn't have the distractions of friends or a city he loved. There was always something to do in London, always somewhere he had to be, and now there was quiet. The silence seemed to have opened a door in his mind that only led to darkness and despair, he just couldn't quite close it. The drive home didn't offer any answers to his questions, he felt very, very alone.

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes lay sprawled out on his bed and, for now at least, tried desperately to ignore the large bulge between his legs. He had been lying on his bed thinking of Mr Watson, before he knew it all the blood had rushed south. His crush on his teacher was getting out of hand, .He was acting like a schoolgirl with all this swooning and daydreaming about him, and he hated it. He had hoped to spend this Saturday as he usually did, studying hard at the library but, much to Mrs Hudson's surprise, he actually had to leave because he just could not concentrate, he found himself staring at the words on the page but not taking anything in, constantly thinking of Mr Watson, his expressions, the way he looked, the way he moved, the way he had sat so closely when they at the cinema. He had hoped leaving the library and the bicycle ride home would clear his head, but now he was again thinking about his biology teacher. Away from Mrs Hudson's prying eyes he could think about whatever he wanted, and what he wanted was Mr Watson. It had progressed from simply imagining Mr Watson to imagining what he would feel like, to imagining how soft his lips would be against his and how his body would feel under his finger tips. All of this had led to the predicament he was in now, that is lying on his bed with an erection for his teacher. He had never had an erection over someone before. He had woken up with morning wood before, but that was more simple biology then desire. He had never got hard by thinking about someone or looking at a picture or a film…That was until now.<p>

Finally, staring down at himself and the state he had gotten into, he pouted, he looked at the way his member bulged up in his jeans, long and thick against his skinny thighs. He had never indulged himself in such practices as masturbation; unlike most teenage boys who had wanking down to an art form, he preferred to see himself above such matters. Now curiosity and the lust he felt were getting the better of him. He was all alone in the house, his father wouldn't be back for hours, so it was the perfect time to indulge himself and release the pressure that had built up inside. He knew the mechanics of what he was about to do, but, being such a novice, he still felt a sense of nervous anticipation. He didn't know how it would feel or how his body will respond.

Getting up, he went to the bathroom (quite difficult with a hard on) and came back with a handful of tissue for the mess, he lay back on the bed. Propping himself up on the wall, he put a pillow behind him then gingerly undid the zipper of his trousers before pulling them down. Screwing up his eyes, he toyed with the waistband of his boxers then pulled them down so they joined his jeans down around his ankles. He stared at the ceiling for a few moments then finally plucked up the courage to actually look at himself he stared at the now swollen muscle, red, almost purple in colour he noted the blue veins that snaked themselves up the sensitive flesh. It was almost painfully hard and he desperately needed release. That was all he was doing he lied to himself, he couldn't spend the day with an erection like this and this was the quickest way he could think to get rid of it . Yes, that was all he was doing.

He reached down, curled his hand round the base and stroked gently, a simple up and down motion that left him with a warm and not exactly un-pleasurable feeling in the pit of his stomach. He waited a few moments, savouring the feeling touching himself had given him, then he did it again, this time increasing the pressure slightly and flicking his thumb over the tip. Yes that felt nice, very nice indeed, again a warm pleasant feeling flooded him except this time it was stronger, becoming more intense each time he moved his hand. He increased the pace between the strokes and found his mind going completely blank; all he could feel, all he could think about was what was going on between his legs. No matter how intense it was becoming, no matter how much he thought he couldn't handle the way he was feeling, he knew nothing could make him stop. Images of Mr Watson came into his mind, and he couldn't help himself. He imagined him smiling, laughing. Sherlock imagined what it would feel like if he had been courageous enough to have reached out in the cinema and threaded his hands through his teachers….. But most of all he imagined what it would feel like if it was Mr Watson's hand doing this to him.

He felt something emerge from his stomach, a feeling like something was tickling his insides, like an itch he couldn't scratch, and it felt very nice. Very, very nice indeed. He surrendered himself to the flood of pure desire he felt and let out a small moan, his stomach muscles contracting subconsciously. Suddenly everything became too much, he couldn't handle what he felt, it was too strong and a strange pressure built up inside of him that he both savored and desperately wanted release from. A few more tugs and the pressure escaped, hot liquid spilt out over hand and his orgasm hit him so completely, he felt a high that he never wanted to come down from. It was the greatest feeling he had ever experienced. He felt like he had been pushed into a sea of pure ecstasy that had taken over his entire body. When his mind rewired itself and began working again, he was panting. He felt that he couldn't move as everything felt very heavy, and he felt a wave of sleepiness hit him. He lay in his mess, feeling the sweat dripping from forehead and thighs as he panted and tried to even out his heart rate. His breathing was usually measured and precise, but now it was erratic and out of control.

He cleaned himself with the tissue and threw it in the bin. Pulling his trousers back up, he couldn't quite believe what he had done. He had had his first orgasm, and it was glorious. But it also terrified him slightly, the intense feeling and the way his mind lost total control. He hadn't been able to think or do anything apart from entirely focus on his orgasm. To experience this in the privacy of one's own bedroom was one thing, but doing this in front of someone else was a completely different matter. He didn't like the idea of someone seeing him so vulnerable or exposed.

* * *

><p>'Hi Sherlock.'<p>

Sherlock looked up from his book at morning registration to see Molly's bright face shining back at him and his mind went into overdrive, uniform was neat, as usual, but she appeared to be wearing lipstick? Why was she wearing lipstick at school when she never did before?...Biology. In fact Sherlock had never seen her wear any make up before but now could see lipstick, her cheekbones enhanced by some blusher and some mascara round her eyes. She was trying to impress someone, Mr Watson judging by the doe eyed look she gave him in biology.

'I'm having a 16th birthday party on Saturday, and I want you to come.' Handing him an invitation, she smiled again as she took the seat next to him. He looked down at the pictures of balloons, the swirling writing and knew at once there was no way he was going. Besides, he had no one to go with, no one at this party would pay him any attention and he just wanted to be left alone.

'Please come," she requested again.

'Maybe,' he responded, this was Molly, little mousy Molly and she didn't deserve this. He wished he could see what exactly it was Molly saw in him but he couldn't. He was heartless, worthless, a waste of blood and oxygen just like his dad told him. Why could she not see that? Why couldn't she just leave him alone? Molly was the only person in the school who paid any attention to him, and he hated her for it. He knew he should be grateful, but whenever she spoke to him, smiled at him, even acknowledged he was there, it just made him feel uncomfortable.

The school day passed quickly and quietly. He didn't see Mr Watson at all, much to his relief and disappointment.

He walked towards the library when school ended. Passing by the corner shop, he walked in for a pack of cigarettes. As soon as he walked in he remembered he was in his school uniform and wouldn't get served, so he decided to get something to eat instead. Hovering over the pre packed sandwiches, he went for the least sorry looking one he could find, something with egg and cress in it. He didn't really care what was in the sandwich he just wanted the hunger pangs to go away. Eating very little food had started to catch up with him. He had always been very thin, but now with his dad spending his wage on drink rather than food for him and his son, Sherlock had started losing even more weight. He noticed how he could feel his ribs under his shirt, and the bones in his arms and legs stuck out slightly. Having picked his sandwich and a also a packet of Monster Munch he noticed a small display of cards. He went for the first one he saw with _Happy Birthday_ written on it. The script was bright, there was a picture of kitten on it, and the envelope was bright pink, it would do.

* * *

><p>'Hello, Sherlock.'<p>

'Hi, Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock replied and the librarian smiled lightly at him.

Rather than going to his usual seat in the crime section, he spent the next few hours scouring the library for whatever he could find about love. There were epic romances, classical fiction, self help books, trashy romance novels... and it all left him feeling utterly confused. It seemed the more he found out about love, the less he knew. Attraction, lust, sex, desire, love, relationships, he didn't understand any of it. Why did he fancy Mr Watson? Why did he get butterflies in his stomach when he thought of him? Why did he catch himself thinking about his teacher without even realising it? But most of all, why couldn't he control how he felt? It angered him that he was having all these emotions he hadn't chosen to have. He threw one of the books down on the desk and buried his hand in his hands. He felt utterly let down. Books had always taught him whatever he needed to now but now they were just confusing him as he struggled to comprehend the matter at hand. Life would be so much easier if he didn't fall in love, if he could close his heart of and stop himself feeling the pain. However, no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't stop himself. He couldn't let go of how he felt about his teacher, and he could not deny the strange pull he felt toward the man.

'You alright dear?' Mrs Hudson asked.

'Fine, just fine.' He grabbed his bag and prepared to head out the library.

'Someone gave me this earlier this afternoon, you might be interested.' Mrs Hudson handed him a leaflet. He shrugged his shoulders as he glanced down to read whatever was on the paper.

'Violin lessons? Could be fun I suppose.'

As soon as he was out the building he rang the number. Speaking to woman on the other end he arranged a lesson for a few days time. What did he have to lose? It would be good to challenge his brain, to get out of the house for a little while, and if he didn't like it he could stop. He had a few missed calls from Mycroft again when he checked his phone but he promptly ignored him. Still feeling bitter over his abandonment, he had no desire to speak to his brother. He sent him a quick text saying he was fine and left it at that.

When he got home, he buttered a roll for dinner and made a cup of tea.

'Fucking fags.' He heard his father hiss from the living room. Yet another football match and yet again another crate of beer. Sherlock had no intention of coming out to his father but knowing exactly what his father would think still made edgy.

He wanked again that night. When his father was asleep on the sofa snoring loudly, he shut himself away in his room and indulged himself again. It was even better this time as he knew more about what he liked, the technique he wanted to use, how he liked to be touched and the pace and pressure he favored. This time he didn't even stop the images of Mr Watson coming into his mind, he felt in some way Mr Watson was his when he was like this, that in some way he owned Mr Watson when his body was responding to him in this way. That he was Sherlock's even if it only lasted a few moments

* * *

><p>'Right, hold this string down tightly and try again.' Sherlock ran the bow over the strings carefully and listened to the sweet sound it made. He was mesmerised the first time he stroked the bow along the strings; it was mournful, melancholic, utterly enchanting, and he adored each note. He loved knowing that he was the one making these sounds come out of the violin, that he was creating them. He also enjoyed the effect that the violin had on him – it seemed to calm his brain and make it easier to think.<p>

'Well done, Sherlock, you're a natural.' His teacher Mrs Lestrade smiled at him. The lesson was at her smart cottage on the other side of Bakerford. Sherlock had fast become addicted to this. He loved the way the violin fitted in his neck and the sweet mournful sounds he could make with it, his teacher was right, he was a natural. The music was beautiful to his ears, the chord progression was simple maths and his brain could easily get around the patterns he played.

Once the lesson ended, he arranged another lesson for the next week, bid his teacher goodbye and left the house. He was walking down the path to his bike which he had chained up next to the garden fence, when a familiar face caught his eye. It was Mr Watson walking his dog up the garden path of the house next door. His mouth suddenly went dry and his heartbeat quickened. That was his house he deduced, Mrs Lestrade was his neighbour, his violin teacher was next door neighbors with Mr Watson. Sherlock thought he was about to explode when his teacher started speaking.

'Hello, Sherlock, what you doing here?' He smiled. _Oh my God, he was actually smiling at him._ Sherlock didn't know what to do or where to look.

'Had a violin lesson.' He gestured to the house.

'Oh, with Kate. She is lovely. I hope you weren't too much trouble for her.' He grinned, a genuine grin. Sherlock loved how when his teacher smiled it seemed to light up his entire face. He tried to say something witty and clever back but couldn't quite find the words.

* * *

><p>Sherlock couldn't wipe the grin of his face all the way home. He had been outside Mr Watson's home, he had spoken to him. Just standing in front of him and having Mr Watson in his sight him made him feel all light headed and happy. He also now knew where he lived, a useless piece of information perhaps, but, still, he had seen Mr Watson's home! It seemed odd to any school child that teachers had lives outside of school, were, underneath it all, normal people with their own lives, hopes and desires, so seeing a teachers home always burnt into the memory.<p>

Mr Watson may have said no more than a few words to him, but Sherlock couldn't help but rerun the scene inside his mind, his heart beating fast every time he went over Mr Watson's words, the way he looked, the way he held himself, the clothes he wore and every detail of his facial expression.

He was still smiling when he showered that evening. He tried to do his history homework but his brain was so full of Mr Watson he couldn't write a single word about the assassination of the archduke Franz Ferdinand without biting his lip to stop himself from laughing in complete joy.

The next day at school he saw, from his usual spot in the playing field, Mr Watson arrive in his car, but he didn't have the confidence to go speak to him. He knew he would babble and go the colour of a tomato, so he stayed away and admired from afar. Within a few minutes of arrival, Sherlock noticed how Mr Watson had gathered a small crowd around him of students who wanted to wish him good morning. He was carrying his bag and a box of something or other.

Sherlock left quickly when the bell rang to get to his classes, wishing he could see his teacher again rather than attend stupid boring lessons. He wanted to see Molly, but she was always surrounded by her silly giggling friends.

He finally got Molly on her own at lunch. 'Sorry Molly, I'm busy Saturday,' he lied 'Can't go to your party but here you go.' He handed Molly the card and watched her eyes light up at the bright pink envelope and a smile creep onto her face as she took in the picture of the kitten and 'Happy Birthday, Molly from Sherlock' scrawled in his handwriting inside.

'Oh, Sherlock, thank you.' She flung her arms around him just as the bell rang, squeezing him tightly. The fumes of her strawberry shampoo clogged his senses and her hair tickled his nose. She stood on tiptoes to hug him as he stood utterly frozen to the spot, arms glued to his sides. He pulled away as soon as he could, almost running to his next lesson.

He saw Mr Watson in the distance walking towards his room and smiled again, thoughts of Molly's hug a million miles away as soon as he saw his teacher. Just the way he held his coffee was infinitely interesting to Sherlock. He wished he could bunk off and follow him about all day, stay in his room and be forever in his presence, but he resigned himself to watching from a distance. So many girls flirted with him, undoing the top buttons of their school shirts to get him to notice them, but he showed no interest. He didn't stand a chance.

The lessons passed by, and finally the end of the day bell rang. He walked amongst the students out of the school gates till he was once again alone, just the way he liked it. He decided to take the long route home. He saw how autumn was fast becoming winter, the leaves on the trees had all fallen and now they were quite bare, the branches looking like withered fingers against the landscape. The sky had turned a deep grey colour, the evenings closed in earlier and earlier, the sky covered in clouds. The air had become chilly, soon he would have to start wearing his coat. He walked aimlessly along the neat rows of houses and saw Molly running after him.

'Hi Sherlock.' She beamed at him 'Thanks for the card.' She smiled another saccharine sweet smile at him.

'It's alright'; he mumbled. For God's sake, it was just a stupid card.

'Can I walk home with you?'

'Fine.' He walked off and allowed Molly to walk alongside him. They walked in silence. Well, he was silent, Molly chatted quite a bit about things that did not really interest him. School, teachers, things on television... he stopped paying much attention, instead shoving his hands deeply into his pocket. Molly was inanely grinning at him again, and Sherlock kept his eyes glued to the floor as his feet pounded the pavement. When they reached Molly's home, he tried to hide his relief at finally getting rid of her.

'Well, here we are.' He gestured at her house 'See you on Monday.' Sherlock mumbled again then suddenly found Molly coming at him, striding at him with a look of such intent in her eyes. He tried to back away as soon as he felt Molly come into his personal space, but Molly curled her arms around his neck, holding his head tightly and crushing her lips to his. He tried to pull away again, but her grip on his neck was surprisingly strong. He immediately wanted to back away, but her nails dug into his skin as she tried to move her lips against his firmly closed mouth. Finally, putting his hands on her shoulders, he pushed her away. He hated the way she tasted, the way she felt against him. It was his first kiss, and he hated every moment of it. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand trying desperately to get rid of Molly's presence on him.

'What the hell are you doing?' he stammered. He may not know much about love, but he knew you shouldn't kiss someone out the blue, especially if they have not given any indication they want to kiss you back.

She gasped, her face turning red in embarrassment as she realised what an awful mistake she had made. 'I like you, I thought you liked me too.'

'I'm gay!' The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. There was a long silence, then Molly ran up the path into her house, wiping her eyes and slamming the door behind her.

Sherlock could not believe what he had done. He had just blurted out his deepest darkest secret, just like that. One fit of desperation, and it was now all out. Would Molly tell anyone? Would she tell Jim? Her friends? The whole school? Would his dad find out? He felt sick, desperately wishing he could turn back the clock and never walk home with her in the first place. He wished he had never even given her that card. His blood turned to ice in his veins, then suddenly he felt unbelievably hot and his head started pounding. A momentary loss of control and now there was no going back. He had worked so hard to hide this for as long as he could remember, and now all of that hard work had been ruined in a matter of seconds. What the hell was he going to do now? He turned away and started to make the short walk home.

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	5. The Party

**Hands On Education Chapter Five.**

**The Party **

Sherlock pulled at the clothes inside his wardrobe, casting a doubtful eye over each piece of clothing he owned. The hangers clicked together as he rummaged making a very irritating sound as he stared forlornly at the contents of his wardrobe with a sense of intense disappointment, blindly pulling out jeans and tops, T shirts and jumpers, hoping to find something that could be suitable. His lack of anything deemed fit for a birthday party had never caused him any worry before; he didn't even know his material possessions were in such dire straits till he had started actually looking for something to wear that was more specific than a visit to the library or a day at school

He didn't know why he was even bothering with Molly's party. He didn't even know what he was going to do when he got there. The events after school, walking her home, the kiss, telling her he was gay, her running to his house, it had been played over and over again and again in excruciating detail since it happened. He had decided when he lay in bed the night before the party that he would go to see her and beg her to keep his secret. He didn't know if it would work, he didn't know if she had already announced to the world that Sherlock Holmes fancied men. All he knew was that he had to do something. He couldn't, as much as he would have liked, stayed in his bedroom and shut off from the outside world; he had to go to school on Monday and he didn't want to be called 'fag' or 'queer'. He needed to explain himself to Molly and the desperate hope that he could convince her not to tell the rest of the school clung to his mind so much he couldn't think of anything else. Worry was seeping into his bones and churning in his guts, meaning his body needed movement, needed to walk and stretch his limbs, a momentary relief that would calm him as sitting in his room entirely still was only making him antsy.

Finally deciding that as he couldn't put this off any longer and he really needed to decide what to wear, he settled on a pair of skinny black jeans and a simple blue t-shirt. The clothes clung to him and gave him the appearance of someone even skinnier. The clothes were not expensive or designer but they fit him well; a bit of gel in his hair and he was good to go. He had never been to a party before, and he had no intention of going to another. He would walk in, speak to Molly and leave — in and out in no time at all. He walked out of the house and stepped into the dark, the chilly air hitting him as he closed the door and began the short journey to the party. The streets of Bakerford quiet as the grave, he saw no one, heard no one even though it wasn't exactly late. Autumn was now in full swing meaning he had to wrap his jacket tightly around himself to keep warm, the chilly air coming like a thief taking away the sunshine and warm evenings of summer. The stars were shining down brightly in the dark sky, streetlamps and lights from the windows of houses lighting up the streets as Sherlock walked the short journey towards Molly's house.

As he turned the corner to Molly's house, a smart, typically suburban house in a smart typically suburban street, he began to feel lightheaded and sick with worry from the nerves coursing through his system. His mouth went dry and he was tempted to turn and run, to run back to his room and never come out again, but he had no choice. He needed to speak to Molly as soon as he could before it was too late, and this way he definitely knew he would find Molly home. He swallowed, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jacket, and tried to rehearse what he was going to say in his mind. All the lights in the house were on, and some brightly coloured balloon with 'happy birthday' hung on the door. He could hear the stereo pumping out some moronic pop song he did not recognise, and he heard the babbling of the partygoers. He had no desire to be in the house whatsoever, but it was now or never. He opened the door, not bothering to ring the doorbell as he wished to sneak into the party unnoticed. He recognised most faces from St Bart's, faces which shot him odd looks as soon as he walked through the door. He heard someone whispering 'what the hell is _he _doing here?' which Sherlock ignored. Most partygoers were clutching plastic cups, a few drinking straight out of vodka bottles, screwing their faces as soon as the liquid hit their tongues. Underage drinking, clearly the parents were not home. A few who were not used to the effects of alcohol were already swaying and having to be propped up by their friends.

'What are you doing here freak?' a voice came from behind him; Sally Donovan looked at him as if he was something she had scraped off the bottom of her shoe, obviously disgusted that he had decided to come to the party.

'Where's Molly?' he snapped back, Sherlock never wanted to talk to Sally any longer then was strictly necessary.

'Garden. Now piss off.'

He walked through the hallway, ducking around groups of people, to the kitchen. More people crowded round the table pouring drinks, and a few were nibbling on some sandwiches and crisps that had been laid out. Sherlock ignored everyone and opened the back door to the garden. Due to the cold air, everyone was crammed inside so he wondered why Molly was outside. He had passed a few smokers huddling together on the front lawn as he came in, but the back was entirely deserted or at least it seemed that way. Molly didn't smoke, so why was she outside on her own? He couldn't see Molly anywhere, and he was just about to give up and start his search inside until he looked into a dark corner at the back of the garden. He spotted the back of a man's head but couldn't see who it was. He saw sleekly black hair and, even though it was dark and the only light coming from the lights inside the house, he could tell the jeans the person wore were designer as well as the jacket. The whole outfit probably cost more than Sherlock's entire wardrobe. He looked to see the figure bobbing his head up and down, back leaning over at a strange angle that didn't look at all comfortable, arms encased around something, or someone. He quickly realised it was two people snogging in the corner of the garden and quickly turned to make his way inside.

'Sherlock?' A girl emerged from the dark shadows of the garden wearing a pretty party dress and smudged lipstick.

'Molly.' He breathed a sigh of relief that he had found her then felt embarrassment at interrupting her snogging session with whoever it was. He was just about to ask who she was with when a voice came out of the shadows.

'Well, well, well look who it is,' sang a voice. A familiar voice. Moriarty. Moriarty was the dark figure. It abruptly dawned on him that it was Molly and Moriarty he had caught snogging, and he suddenly felt very ill. What the hell was Molly doing? Moriarty was a snake, a weasel, a complete bastard who made Sherlock's blood boil and his life utter hell. He couldn't see it, couldn't put it together. Sweet, innocent, virginal Molly and Moriarty, a man, who if the rumours were to be believed, had slept with more women than he had hot dinners. They were complete opposites in every way, yet Sherlock had just seen them, by the looks of it, trying to swallow each other's heads. Why on earth did Molly allow Moriarty to stick his tongue down her throat? Molly was, of course, a bit dim, but she was essentially good, and this was Moriarty of all people. He shook his head and remembered why he was here. Ignoring Moriarty, he turned to face the young girl.

'Molly, we need to talk.' He reached for her arm trying to drag her away from Moriarty so they could speak in private, but she pulled away from his grip, shaking her head.

'I don't want to speak to you, Sherlock.' She looked down at the floor and sighed, obviously wanting nothing more than for Sherlock to leave.

'You heard the lady,' Moriarty smirked, coming forward, slipping his arm around Molly's waist. Then his voice dropped, and his expression turned dark and serious. 'Leave Sherlock, you are not welcome here.'

Molly kept her eyes on the floor, not wanting to look Sherlock in the eye. Moriarty gripped her hand and led her towards the house.

'What the hell are you doing?' Sherlock hissed, grabbing Moriarty by the elbow, forcing him to a halt.

'What does it look like?' Moriarty took his arm out of Sherlock's grip. 'I've been kissing my girlfriend at her birthday party before we were rudely interrupted by you. Now we are going inside for a drink. We're not all like you, Sherlock.' The look he gave him said all he needed to know — she had told him, oh god, she had told him.

He almost fell over the step as he ran back into the house in his haste to get out of the garden. Not looking back at anything or anyone, he stormed out of the party towards the direction of home, his feet stomping on the pavement, wiping the sleeve of his jacket against his nose, sniffling as he tried to hold back the tears. He wouldn't cry, he refused to cry. He wished he could shut of all his emotions so he wouldn't have to deal with it, wouldn't have to face the emotional volcano he felt bubbling underneath. Suddenly everything had just boiled over. His miserable existence, his dead mother, his abusive father, his newly exposed homosexuality, Mycroft leaving, Jim Moriarty, everything just suddenly became too much, and he felt hot tears run down his cheeks. Sniffing them back as best he could, he paced the pavements of Bakerford. He didn't want to go home just in case his dad had been drinking again, yet he had nowhere else he could go. Saturday night and he had no friends or anyone who would welcome him if he turned up on their doorstep. He chose a direction and walked, not conscious of where he was going, burying his head in his hands trying to stem the tears, when suddenly he collided with a stranger and ground to a halt.

'Sorry,' he mumbled. He was ready to run again when he looked up to see he was level with the bright shining eyes of Mr Watson.

* * *

><p><span>Earlier that Evening<span>

'And then...and then…,' Lestrade giggled and spluttered, trying to get to the rest of the story, 'and then we woke up the next day, and they had robbed us!'

A few of Lestrade's fellow policemen began to howl with laughter, and John Watson smiled into his pint. The Brown Bear was heaving with it being Saturday evening; it was crowded round the bar and they had only just managed to get a table. John had been invited out with Lestrade and a few of his friends on the force for a few drinks, and he'd readily accepted. Now, as the clock turned towards ten, he began to think about heading home. Sarah was away for the night at her mums and would be back in the morning, so it was up to him to give Poppy her evening walk. He still had a pile of marking that he had not finished to do as well.

Drinking with Lestrade and the fellow officers in the pub had been an interesting experience. They were noisy and, despite being policemen, sometimes just downright filthy. The pub was crowded, the anecdotes made no sense to anyone not working in Bakerford police station, the bad jokes were getting progressively ruder as the evening went on, and he was fairly sure one of the officers was hitting on him as he kept putting his hand on John's knee.

It was the best evening he had had in ages.

He couldn't pin point why. It wasn't the alcohol he was drinking; he was only on his second pint. However, for the first time in a long time he wasn't missing London or worrying over Sarah or his job or any of the other stresses of everyday life. He was not thinking that maybe he should have taken the anti-depressents the doctor had prescribed him or whether or not he really should ask Sarah for a divorce. No, he wasn't thinking about any of that. It was exactly what life was like before he moved to Bakerford. Laughing and joking with friends, time passing freely and easily. He felt sane again. He felt young again.

Finishing off his pint, he left the warmth and friendly atmosphere of the pub for the cold night and deserted streets. He remembered the cries of protest as he announced his departure. 'Oh come on John stay.' 'Just one more drink.' It made him feel good that at least a few people in this town enjoyed his company and would miss him when he left. He came home, opening the door and stepping into the hallway but keeping his jacket and shoes on as he rooted around for the dog lead.

'Come on, Pops, walkies.'

The spaniel greeted him with a friendly bark and ran round his legs as John tried to get the lead on her collar. Poppy pulled at the lead as soon as he shut the door. At first he thought it was simple eagerness at going for a walk, but he then realised she had rather a strange expression on her face. If she were human, John would have said she was worried about something. Her ears pricked and her brows furrowed in concern, she gave a loud bark, and John had no choice but to follow her in the direction she was pulling him towards.

Poppy speeded up down the pavements of Bakerford, not slowing down for a moment. John wondered what the hell she was playing at and soon found himself colliding with someone.

'Sorry,' the stranger mumbled to himself and wiped his eyes. When the person moved his arm out of the away, John saw that it was Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p>Sherlock was not exactly sure what to do when he collided with his biology teacher and object of affection on a cold Saturday evening. It took a few moments for Sherlock to realise who it was, but as he blinked away the tears, he recognised the fair hair, warm eyes and strong posture. At first he felt a combination of relief at seeing a friendly face and the lightheaded feeling he always get whenever he saw Mr Watson. After a few moments, he then felt a strong sense of embarrassment. He had been crying, so he could picture his eyes red and puffy. He couldn't stop sniffling and could only imagine what a state he looked.<p>

'Sherlock, what happened?' Mr Watson asked, the concern and worry evident in his voice and his eyes. Sherlock could not remember the last time someone had given him such a caring look. John's dog, Poppy, stood close to Sherlock, rubbing her wet nose on the inside of his palm. He ran a hand though her ears, and she gave a low whine.

'I'm fine,' he sniffed, making his teacher turn his head to the side.

John knew it was a lie. It was so obviously a lie that John didn't believe it, not even for a moment. It didn't take a genius to figure out when you found someone walking the streets in the middle of the night in tears, they were about as far away from fine as it's possible to be.

'Come on. I'm going to take you home.' The older man reached out and gently touched the boy's elbow in a reassuring gesture.

'No,' Sherlock cried. 'Please, I don't want to go home.' The tears welled up behind his eyes again at the thought of it.

'Well, you can't stay out here by yourself,' Mr Watson said adamantly. He paused for a second to think of what to do next, the cogs in his brain beginning to turn.

'Come on, my place isn't that far. You can come and warm yourself up.' Mr Watson gently tugged on his elbow, the strong palm on his jacket sending bolts of electricity through his arm. Sherlock had no choice but to follow, not entirely sure whether or not to believe that this was happening.

* * *

><p>Sherlock knew that St Bart's would look down upon a student being in a teacher's house, but, to be honest, he didn't really care. He was in Mr Watson's home! He took off his shoes and jacket and was led to a small sitting room, Poppy not leaving his side for a moment. As he sat down on a comfy sofa, the dog rested her head on his lap, and he absentmindedly stroked her as he looked around. The home was fairly small but typical of the town. The decor modern yet homely. A fireplace lay unlit at the centre of the room. There were plenty of pictures of his teacher and his wife littered around, and he noticed that John had such a lovely smile in all of them. What surprised Sherlock was just how neat the house was; it contrasted sharply with his own brand of organised chaos. If there was not such an obvious influence of a wife, Sherlock could be quite happy here. He wondered where Sarah was, then found he didn't really care about that either.<p>

A steaming mug of hot tea and a plate of chocolate biscuits were placed in front of him. Sherlock picked up the mug with both hands, letting the hot cup warm his fingers

'I find a cup of tea and a few biscuits solves everything.' His teacher smiled at him, Sherlock reached to the biscuits. Hob-nobs, his favourite.

'Wanna talk about what happened?' the older man asked, sipping on his own tea. Sherlock shook his head and stared at the floor. They sat in a comfortable silence, Sherlock lost in thought, Mr Watson sipping his own tea and watching over his pupil.

'You seemed happy in London,' Sherlock said as he nodded towards the photographs. 'Why'd you leave?'

'Sarah,' John said simply, shrugging his shoulders. 'She wanted to be closer to her mum.'

They chatted freely as they finished their tea, Sherlock asking his teacher about life in London. He sat wide eyed as he learnt about the city and Mr Watson's old life. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to leave the place; to him it sounded like the most wonderful place on earth. He thought of the books he read and how he could go to London and visit Scotland Yard, his head filled with images of chasing criminals and solving the unsolvable. He could be famous, he could make a name for himself and be the greatest detective ever known. He drank the last of the tea and made his mind up. As soon as he could, he would leave Bakerford for London. He would leave for _Mr Watson's_ London.

He was driven back home in his teacher's car. The lights were on in his home, but Sherlock was used to sneaking into the house unnoticed.

'Best not to tell anyone about this,' Mr Watson warned. 'Last thing I need is all your classmates coming to my house for tea.'

Sherlock smiled but said nothing. They both knew he would keep this quiet. After all, he had no friends to tell.

'See you at school.'

* * *

><p>As Sherlock laid on his bed later that night thinking about London and where he would live, what he would do, where he would go, all the places he would visit, his phone rang. The name Mycroft flashed on the screen, and his heart sank. He didn't want to speak to his brother, finding he was quiet tired after all the emotional upheaval of the night, so he ignored it. The phone rang again, and Sherlock left it, letting it go to his voicemail. This happened again and again. He carried on ignoring it, hoping Mycroft would give up and leave him in peace. Then the phone chimed telling him he had received a text.<p>

_One Message Received. _

_I can do this all night. _

_MH_

The phone again rang, and this time he reluctantly answered. The sooner he spoke to his brother the sooner he could tell him to piss off so he could get some sleep.

'What do you want, Mycroft?' he hissed.

'Well, it's so nice to finally hear your voice. Hello, petite frère.'

'Just cut to the point.' Sherlock had very little patience for his brother at the best of times.

'Fine, if you don't wish to chat.' There were no sounds except Mycroft's voice coming from the other end, no background noise at all, so Sherlock guessed that, like him, Mycroft was alone in his room… though probably not for long. If there was one thing his brother was very very good at, it was networking. Mycroft was probably invited to all the most important events with the most important people. Sherlock was surprised that, with this new life, Mycroft even remembered he had a brother.

'I'm sending you some more money through the post. Don't let father see it, don't let him have it. It's for you, understood?'

Even though Mycroft couldn't see him, Sherlock nodded. 'Yes, I understand. Where are you getting money from?'

'Just a part time job I have when I'm not studying. How have you been?'

'Fine.'

'School?'

'Fine.'

'How is father?'

Silence.

'Has he hit you?'

He hung up.

* * *

><p>Sherlock walked into biology Monday afternoon. The day had not been as bad as he had anticipated, making Sherlock wonder if Molly had told Moriarty anything after all. He expected taunts and an announcement at any moment during registration, but that hadn't happened. They started lessons and still nothing. It was a relief. Sitting at his usual desk in the back of room, Sherlock got out his pens and exercise book and waited for the lesson to begin. Mr Watson was chatting to a few of his classmates, and there was a steady trickle of those arriving into the classroom.<p>

Sherlock could still not quite believe what had happened on Saturday evening. The earlier events at Molly's party were totally eclipsed by colliding with Mr Watson, with then being taken to his home and having tea and biscuits and a nice chat. It wasn't the chat a teacher normally had with his student, but the chat of equals, or even — dare he say it? — friends. There was something incredibly personal at seeing the inside of someone's home, at being in the same home where his teacher lived his life, where he ate and slept, watched TV and read the morning paper. Mr Watson was no longer his teacher, was no longer someone who taught him for a few hours a week, marked his homework and then sent him home. Sherlock admired him, and felt like he was a friend. Well, the closest thing to a friend Sherlock had ever had. Yes, Mr Watson was his friend, and the thought made Sherlock vibrate with glee.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by the scraping of the chair next to him.

'Hello, Holmes.' Moriarty smiled at him as he sat down in the chair.

Sherlock look horrified and gave Jim a disgusted look but said nothing. He wondered what the other boy had up his sleeve.

'Jim, why are you not sitting in your usual seat?' Mr Watson asked.

'Sorry, sir, but I'm struggling with Biology, and Sherlock has offered to help.' Jim sounded so convincing, the lie slipping out of his mouth with ease.

'Is this true, Sherlock?'

'Yes, sir,' Sherlock mumbled.

Mr Watson just shook his head, gave a small shrug of the shoulders, and started the lesson.

'Right. Today we are going to study sexual reproduction, so everyone turn to page fifty.'

There was giggling as there was a diagram of a vagina on the page with arrows pointing to various bits such as the 'clitoris'. Sherlock rolled his eyes at the immaturity of his classmates. He didn't get what was so funny.

'Now, I want everyone to do the exercise at the bottom of the page,' Mr Watson instructed, and there was the sound of students digging out pens and exercise books.

'Never seen one of those have you, Holmes?' Moriarty whispered into his ear. He was so close Sherlock could feel his hot breath on the side of his face. His body felt repulsed at the close proximity to his arch enemy. Suddenly Moriarty shot his hand up into the air and began to wave it around, trying to get Mr Watson's attention.

'Yes, what is it, James?' the teacher asked.

'Sir, since we are learning about sex today, I have a question.'

'Yes, what is it?' Mr Watson replied, taking a sip out of his coffee mug. Sherlock's hand clasped very tightly around his pen till his knuckles turned white as every head in the classroom turned to face them.

'Well, Sherlock and I were wondering if it is possible for two men to have sex?'

Sherlock felt his cheeks go bright red, and there was a chorus of laughter around the classroom. Sherlock felt his body go cold. Moriarty knew. Molly had told him after all, and Moriarty had just been waiting for the perfect moment. To the shock of just about every student in the classroom —everyone, that is, apart from Sherlock who had been so keenly observing his teacher for so long now that he knew just how Mr Watson would react — their teacher did not splutter out of embarrassment or tell everyone to go back to their work. Mr Watson was the very definition of calm and relaxed.

'Well, James, it is perfectly possible for two men to enjoy a full and satisfying sex life.'

'Yes, but how?' Moriarty asked.

Sherlock doubted highly that Moriarty didn't know the answer to this but was just using this to extend Sherlock's torture.

'Well, they can have oral sex, which is the process of using your mouth to stimulate your partner's sexual organs. Then there is anal sex, where the penis is inserted into the rectum of the partner. With the right amount of preparation and lubrication it can be very enjoyable. Now can everyone please get back to their work?'

And that was that. Sherlock was very impressed by how his teacher handled the situation, Moriarty was too by the looks of it. Mr Watson was so unaffected by what had happened, unflustered and cool. He hadn't turned into a blubbering wreck like so many of the other teachers would have done, and that once again made Mr Watson a favourite. Mr Watson's breaking point had yet to be established, but the desire to do so had long gone. The bell rang, and Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief that another school day was over.

He cornered Moriarty in the corridor when they left the classroom

'What do you think you are doing?' he demanded.

'Oh come on, Sherlock' he smirked at his curly haired classmate. 'Molly told me you are a dirty fucking shirt lifter and I thought maybe you needed some advice.'

So it was true, Molly had told Moriarty about their kiss and his rejection of her. Maybe she was angry, maybe she wanted revenge. But Molly didn't seem like that type at all, and what was she doing telling Moriarty anyway? Jim hadn't shown her the slightest bit of attention till that night Sherlock saw them at the party, and now they were going out? And Sherlock thought Molly liked him? Sherlock was so confused by it all. He suddenly had the strongest urge to wipe that smug grin off Moriarty's face. Curling his hand into a fist, he swung it at his enemy's face, making a satisfying crunching sound as it impacted his nose. Sherlock felt a wave of satisfaction as he watched blood came pouring out in red torrents down the pristine white of Jim's school shirt.

'Sherlock!' a voice cried out. Mr Watson caught his wrist and pulled him away from Moriarty.

'Sir, Holmes punched me!' Jim wailed, demanding justice.

'I know, I saw,' the teacher sighed. 'James, go see the school nurse and have her look at your nose. Sherlock, my room now.'

Sherlock made no reply but followed his teacher back into the classroom he had just left.

'What the hell was that about?' his teacher demanded.

Sherlock had never seen him so angry before. He didn't reply, didn't think about how close the object of his desire was standing to him. He furrowed his brows in annoyance, annoyed that he was the one being singled out and Moriarty had got away with his taunts. He deserved a lot more than a small punch to the nose.

'You don't know what it's like,' he whined.

'Sherlock… look, next time Moriarty causes you trouble, come and see me. I don't want you taking things into your own hands. You're an amazing student, Sherlock. I don't get why you care what others think of you.'

'I care what you think of me.'

Once again he felt an acute sense of embarrassment as yet again he blurted something out that he had tried to hide. Why the hell did he tell Mr Watson that? He may as well have told him he got hard thinking of him, that he masturbated every night picturing his face and that he had the world's biggest crush on him. There was an awkward pause before his punishment was passed down.

'I'm giving you a detention, my room after school tomorrow. Is that clear?'

Sherlock nodded then left. He walked down the corridors of the school without looking back for a single second.


	6. Detention

**New update! So grateful to anyone still sticking with this, I will try and update more frequently in future. No promises, but I will try. Major thanks to Marie for betaing. Also to everyone who reviewed my last chap, it was so nice reading your kind words over my cornflakes. Hope this chapter doesn't dissatisfy. **

**Lots of loves **

**MB**

**xxxxxx **

**Chapter 6**

**Detention**

Another morning broke over Bakerford, a bluish light filled John Watson's bedroom, heralding the start of a new day. Winter had reared its ugly head and coated the town in a thick layer of frost, the nights drawing in so much so that the sun became a rare presence in the sky. John Watson grunted as he flew out an arm and waved it about as if conducting an orchestra as he desperately tried to find the snooze button on his alarm clock. He settled for simply grunting and slapping down his open palm on top of the beeping machine as hard as he could to shut the thing up. It seemed to work, and he settled back into the peaceful silence, turning over in his bed and pulling the duvet tightly over himself as he squeezed as much time as he could before he really had to get up. His brain never worked well this early so all he could think about was the simple calculation that the bed equalled warmth and comfort and out of it meant coldness. Every morning he followed the same routine: he would be woken up by his alarm clock, completely ignore it, fall back to sleep, wake up again and realise he had completely overslept, and spend the next half hour in a complete panic trying to get ready in time. Every morning the same thing, yet somehow he couldn't bring himself to break the routine.

It seemed that he was being woken up earlier and earlier every morning, or at least it felt that way considering how dark it was when he woke. The bright mornings of summer a long distant memory as November had seeped into December, the sky a dark blue when he awoke, having to turn on the lights in the morning just so he could get ready for school always put him in a bad mood. Frost hardening the earth outside, puddles icing over-ready to trip up an unsuspecting passerby. He had started to wear his thick coat and gloves, and, whenever he exhaled, his breath could be seen escaping his mouth into the air outside. Christmas was coming soon; he always enjoyed Christmas. Not because he was a religious man, far from it, he was about as religious as most Englishmen. A few hymns sung (badly) as a school boy, references to God at a few friends' weddings, a few amens at funerals, and that was the extent of his relationship with God. No, he was looking forward to Christmas because of the long holiday he would get. No school. He wanted it to come more than the kids did. A few weeks off, not having to be anywhere or do anything. He could even cope with the in-laws as long as he started drinking early enough. Christmas didn't mean much more to him than eating and drinking far too much; wearing a stupid novelty hat; and receiving presents he had never asked for, didn't want, would never need, and would ultimately be buried in the back of his wardrobe by Boxing Day.

As he nibbled on his breakfast of marmite on toast and drank his first coffee of the day, his mind wandered to the detention he was giving Sherlock Holmes after school. There was something about that student he just couldn't quite put his finger on. It seemed the more he saw of him, in school and out, the more he thought of him. It was as if he had left a door in his mind open and Sherlock had seeped through like a fog without him even noticing. Now there was no way of closing it. There was something about him that had captured John's attention. He felt a strange kind of affinity with the young man; they were both outsiders, neither entirely welcome on the streets of the small town. He liked the fact he was too smart for his own good, just how smart he actually was slightly terrifying to him. He knew the boy was going somewhere, with a mind like that his future lay well beyond the old streets of Bakerford. Sherlock couldn't be contained; he was a bird in a cage, hitting against the bars with its wings waiting for someone to open the door so it could fly far away. And yet, whenever John saw him he always looked so sad, and John wanted to know why. There was so much woe in those grey eyes, John couldn't contemplate it. Sherlock was 16, yet he had the eyes of a very old man who had seen far too much in this life. He hated knowing Sherlock was being bullied for being gay. Not just because he was bisexual himself and had had his own share of snide remarks, but because he was a decent human being. He had received his own share of stick about it when he came out, but he wasn't 16 and he could handle it. Sherlock couldn't, he was just too fragile. John was worried for Sherlock because he didn't want him to lose that spark of brilliance it seemed only he saw. If you kick someone long enough they will either do one of two things: they will fight back or they will totally lose the fire inside of themselves. John didn't want to risk it being the latter.

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><p>Sherlock gave a slight yawn as the end of bell rang throughout the school. He packed his books away into his bag, and he left the classroom in a flourish, barging past fellow students. He was almost running down the corridors to a chorus of 'Watch where you're going freak!' He didn't hear them because his mind was fixed on one thing — he had detention with Mr Watson. Detention. With Mr Watson. <em>Mr Watson. <em>And he didn't want to be a second late. Sure, detentions were horrible, nasty things, the curse of every student everywhere… all except this one. This one was special, this one made him the envy of every girl in the school. This one meant a full hour alone with his teacher. It was as if he had planned the whole thing all along.

At first, he felt angry that Mr Watson had not punished Moriarty, that his arch enemy had got away with provoking him, but then he realised that it was in fact the silver lining. What would be worse than having Moriarty joining him in detention? This way he got some alone time with his teacher, and, on top of it all, he got the satisfaction of punching Moriarty.

He whistled to himself and tried not to skip to the biology classroom. Once he reached the door, he flexed his hands, cracked the knuckles on his left hand, and shook his head with nervous anticipation. He peered in through the small slit of glass in the door with brooding intensity. Mr Watson was sitting alone marking papers, his hair slightly dishevelled and his shirt sleeves pulled up over his elbows. He must have had a long day teaching as he normally looked neat and pulled together. Sherlock liked this dishevelled look, he decided. It made John look quite sexy, the hair sticking out and the clothes slightly ruffled. He made Sherlock's heart skip a few beats. He gave a sharp knock on the wooden door.

'Come in,' Mr Watson spoke loudly.

Sherlock always noted his teacher's friendly tone and the use of 'come in' rather than the harsh 'enter' most teachers preferred. He was a man of quiet authority, and this was just one of the many examples.

Sherlock walked in rather timidly, his normal stride and arrogance missing as so often was the case when he was around his crush.

'Hello, Sir, I'm here for my detention.'

Sherlock had to actually bite down on the inside of his cheek to keep the hurt 'I really don't want to be here' expression on his face rather than giving into the smile that threatened to take over.

'Come in, Sherlock,' Mr Watson urged with a smile.

_Oh my god he is actually smiling at me. Don't blush. For the love of God, please don't blush. _

'Are you alright, Sherlock? You look a bit flushed.'

_DAMN!_

'I'm fine, Sir,' Sherlock choked out.

'Right, sit there.' John pointed directly in front of Sherlock. The middle seat on the front row; it was better than he could have ever hoped for. The prime position for ogling. He hoped he wasn't drooling or being far too obvious as he looked up and took in the soft features. He could recall every detail of that face in his sleep, but he never could get enough of just looking, just taking it all in, the sandy blonde hair and kind eyes. He knew every contour, every wrinkle, every freckle and blemish from the time spent admiring from afar. Nevertheless, he could still spend hours looking at John's face just to make sure he hadn't missed anything. He made sure only to keep his eyes on the man a few seconds then looked down at the floor.

'Here.' John handed Sherlock a few pieces of paper and a pen. 'You're writing lines. Write till detentions over, okay?'

Sherlock nodded. Writing lines, a standard detention activity. He felt let down that Mr Watson hadn't thought of a more original punishment, but this would do. Besides, scribbling lines on paper was easy — dull, but easy. It could've been something far worse like cleaning dirty test tubes or scraping chewing gum off the bottom of the tables.

'Best make a start then.' Mr Watson tilted his head in direction of the seat and smiled.

Sherlock could never get over just how...well just how good his teacher looked when he smiled. Whenever he smiled it seemed to light up his entire face and his eyes sparkled. The look caught Sherlock off-guard again. He turned around trying to hide his blush and ran to his seat. In his panic, though, he didn't see the chair that had been pulled out slightly and tripped over one of the exposed legs. Clattering to the floor, his body made a loud thud as it impacted the ground, and one of the chairs fell on its side.

Quick as a flash, John was out of his seat and running over to where Sherlock had fallen. He knelt over Sherlock and pulled the boy into his arms as if Sherlock were a fairy tale damsel in distress.

'Are you all right? Are you hurt?'

Sherlock looked up, a blush spreading across his cheeks and a lopsided grin on his face. His normal feline elegance had completely evaporated, and he felt cumbersome and awkward. His movements were normally so measured and precise, so the clumsiness of the fall made him wince with embarrassment. There was also a distinct rush of pain in his side. Still, he didn't pull away from his teacher's rather unexpected embrace.

'Fine,' he squeaked. 'I'm fine.'

There were a few moments of pure, deafening silence as the two men's eyes locked and both felt a rush of something that neither could place. Grey eyes met blue, and suddenly the entire world seemed to shift on its axis.

'Are you sure? If you've hit your head you could have a concussion,' John mumbled.

They seemed to be inching closer by the second. The young man in his arms now was a million miles away from the crying wreck he had bumped into while walking his dog just a few weeks ago. Sherlock looked older, stronger. Something had hardened deep inside of him; John could feel it, yet he still felt the same overprotective urge he had back then. He cupped Sherlock's cheek and ran a thumb over a cheekbone, so sharp yet so soft under the pads of his fingertips. He took in the feeling of the delicate skin as he ran a hand upwards into the mass of curls.

Sherlock was well aware just how red his face must have looked right now, and his pupils would be blown wide. He was also aware of his shallow breathing as every exhale seemed to leave his lungs in short bursts of air. How long would they stay like this? The thumb caressing his cheek felt so good he never wanted it to end. What would happen if he reached up and covered his teacher's lips with his own? It would only last a few seconds, of course. He knew John would pull away automatically, but it would finally answer the question of what those lips tasted like. Mr Watson was married, he was straight, so he would be unresponsive… but Sherlock would know. He would finally know. Would it get him expelled? He grinned at the thought. Would he really mind if he was thrown out of school? Mycroft would. _Fuck Mycroft_, he thought. Yes, it would be mere seconds of contact, but how glorious those few seconds would be. They would be worth an eternity of punishment. He would do it. He pulled his body up, using his teacher's firm grip to lean against and pivot himself into position. Just a few more inches, and he would find heaven. He felt dizzy and incoherent. Nothing was stopping him now; maybe he did have concussion after all.

'Sherlock,' Mr Watson whispered. His tone was full of confusion, but he didn't exactly pull away. Did he want this? Did he like Sherlock him just as much as Sherlock liked him? It was impossible. It didn't matter. Sherlock was going to kiss him. He was going to it, and screw the consequences. He reached up a hand and stroked John's cheek. He felt a few days of stubble growth and very warm skin under his fingertips. He would taste that too, right after the lips...

A loud knock on the door made both of them jump and scramble off the floor. The door opened, squeaking slightly on its hinges, and Mr Abbot, another science teacher, waltzed in.

'Alright, John? Wondered if you have a copy of that documentary we were talking about earlier. I want to show it to the class tomorrow.'

'Yes, I do. Wait there.' Mr Watson pulled open a drawer on his desk and rooted around for a moment before pulling out a DVD. 'Here you go.'

Mr Abbot thanked him and left. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John gave him a stern glare, so he closed his mouth tightly.

'Just start doing your lines, Sherlock.'

'What should I write?' he asked.

'I don't know!' his teacher huffed in annoyance. 'How about 'I will not hit fellow pupils in the face,' alright? Keep writing till I say you can stop.'

John was angry. Why was he angry at him? He nodded then shuffled to his desk, unzipped his coat and hung it on the back of the chair before pulling out a pen from his schoolbag. He furiously began writing lines, not looking up for a moment, keeping his eyes directly on the page in front of him and covering the white paper with his neat scrawl. His cheeks were still blushing red, impossible to miss against his pale skin. He didn't dare look up and risk catching Mr Watson's eye, risk staring into those blue orbs. It terrified him to think what he might find there.

After a while, whatever intense electricity had filled the room when Sherlock had tripped had evaporated. The pair settled into a comfortable silence; Sherlock no longer writing as if he was about to burn a hole through the paper he was writing on, and John casually marking exercise books, occasionally allowing a few moments to glance at the student in front of him. He leant his weary head on his hand and studied the young man for a while. Sherlock had a look of intense concentration on his face, as if he was writing an important essay rather than simply lines. It was then that John realised just how pretty Sherlock Holmes actually was. He had never given him a proper look before, but now it suddenly dawned on him that the boy was incredibly beautiful. He wasn't entirely convinced that 'beautiful' was the right word to describe any 16 year old boy. Women were beautiful, landscapes and sunrises were beautiful, a 1965 Aston Martin DB5 was beautiful, but a teenage boy? Teenage boys were gangly, uncoordinated, often had terrible acne and even worse personalities. Then again, he couldn't think of any other word to describe Sherlock. The head of dark curls, the eyes, the lips, the deep baritone voice. His pale skin was porcelain smooth, not a mark or patch of acne anywhere. He remembered the adorable, doe-eyed expression he had given him when John had pulled him into his arms, the way he looked like he was in a trance. He had tried saying Sherlock's name in the hope he would snap out of it, but he carried on looking at John in that dazed way. He looked a million miles away from the weeping figure he had stumbled upon in the streets.

'I know why James Moriarty has been picking on you.'

Sherlock looked up. He stopped writing though he was still grasping his pen tightly.

'You do?' The sound of his voice barely audible, the look on his face was as if he was on trial facing a judge. John hated it. Sherlock was his equal. It was as simple as that.

'Yep, I know he's been bullying you for being gay, and I just wanted you to know that I know how tough it is. If you ever want to talk about it, then you can come and find me. Okay?'

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in annoyance because he didn't want Mr Watson's pity. 'How can you possibly know what it's like?' he hissed. He remembered all the photos he'd seen of John and Sarah, and he'd seen the wedding ring round his finger. How could a happily married man possibly know what it was like for him?

'I know what you're thinking,' Mr Watson smiled at him. 'The answer's bisexual. I've had just as many boyfriends as girlfriends. I came out at university. Some guys gave me some trouble, so I know what it's like. Felt like punching a few of them myself.' He gave a half hearted shrug. 'The point is that you shouldn't let it bother you. If someone has a problem with your sexuality, that's their problem not yours. You shouldn't change for anyone.' John winced slightly at just how corny that sounded. He may as well have put on a skirt and started twirling some pompoms around. Oh well, the message was important, and he meant every word. He never said anything that he didn't mean with his entire being which was why he was a terrible liar. He couldn't lie to save his life and never had been able to. Ever since he was a child, he was paragon, a peerless example of truth and virtue. Promising Sherlock he would stick up for him was yet another typical character trait of John Watson. He'd been born with a moral compass firmly set, and nothing would change that.

'Thank you, Sir,' Sherlock said as he went back to twiddling with his pen. _Mr Watson was bi. Mr Watson liked men. Sherlock was a man._ Sherlock was suddenly finding it very hard to breathe. All these reactions he had whenever he was in close proximity to Mr Watson where becoming so familiar where once they had been alien. He still could not stop them from happening, though he knew he needed to find a better way to be in control of them.

John smiled playfully at Sherlock. God, that boy needed to lighten up! When he was 16 the world was just one big joke. He contemplated just how different his life had been when he was Sherlock's age. His had been full of fun, music, friends, and he'd taken pretty much nothing seriously. All those friends, he wondered what happened to them all after they inevitably lost contact. They wouldn't know him now even if they did meet, like a key fitting an entirely different lock. Maybe they were just like him with jobs and houses and wives, maybe not. He shook himself from the brief reverie, and looked to see that Sherlock was the height of seriousness even when he was just doing lines in a detention. Carefully and quietly, John took a blank piece of paper and folded it into a paper aeroplane. He aimed it right at Sherlock and threw it. He watched as it glided in the air before crashing down and lodging itself in Sherlock's curls. He laughed as Sherlock flinched and grabbed at his hair, pouting as he held the foreign object in his hand and giving John a look that bordered on a glare. Furrowing his brows and squinting his eyes slightly, he looked up at his teacher as he held up the offending object with distain.

'Oh, come on, Sherlock! It was just a paper aeroplane. I only meant it as a joke.' John giggled good naturedly. 'Come on, make one yourself to throw at me, and we'll see who's is best.' He drilled his fingers on the table as a declaration of war.

'I don't know how to make one,' Sherlock said simply.

'What?' John exclaimed. 'You never learnt how to make one? What the hell are they teaching you in these schools?'

Sherlock tilted his head to one side with an expression of confusion. 'You're my teacher, Sir.'

'Um, I know, Sherlock. I meant that as a joke too.' John rolled his eyes.

'Really? Oh yes, very funny. Ha ha ha ha.' Sherlock descended into a chorus of fake laughter trying to show Mr Watson that he did understand his sense of humour. When he finished he shuffled awkwardly, blushed, then gazed back down at the paper he had been writing on.

The pair went back to working in silence, John marking his exercise books and Sherlock writing lines. Sherlock toyed with the paper aeroplane. He could probably build one. It really didn't look that difficult. He folded up the paper and glanced at his teacher, careful to make sure John wasn't looking in his direction.

'What the hell?' Mr Watson threw a hand up and grabbed the part of his head where the paper had hit him. He reached over and picked up the aeroplane Sherlock had made, holding it gently between forefinger and thumb. 'Very good, Sherlock.' They both smiled at each other.

'Right, come on let's call this a day,' John announced as he got up, scraping his chair against the floor. 'Need a lift home?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Yeah, that would be nice,' he said casually, hiding the excitement building in himself. Another lift home? It really was his lucky day.

They walked to the school car park in silence. It was already getting dark as they walked across the concrete to get to John's car. Sherlock climbed into the passenger seat and sat his bag between his legs.

He watched as his teacher opened the driver's side door and climbed in next to him. As John turned the keys in the ignition, the car spluttered, coughed, and then nothing.

'Stupid, fucking piece of junk,' Mr Watson growled when the car failed to start. A couple more tries, and the car coughed into life. It was freezing inside. Sherlock dug in his hands into his pockets and shivered. This did not go unnoticed because, as soon as he had done it, Mr Watson nodded at the dashboard as he grumbled, "Heating should come on in a sec.'

Sherlock nodded back in reply.

The journey was short, so Sherlock knew he had to savour every second. Mr Watson already knew his address so there was no need to direct him to his house. He could simply relax and allow it all to wash over him. The smell of the car, the closeness of his teacher. He didn't have to speak. He didn't have to say or do anything. He hadn't felt so peaceful in a long time. He looked at the dark clouds and realized there would be snow soon, though it wasn't cold enough to settle. A light dusting then it would all melt away. The streets were mostly empty. Boring.

'Not long till you finish now. Got any plans for when you finish school?' his teacher interrupted his train of thought.

He shrugged his shoulders still staring out the window. 'Do my A levels, go to university.'

'Is that what you want?'

'I suppose. My brother wants me to.' He kept his dream of living in London and being a detective to himself as he didn't want John to laugh at him.

'I remember what it was like at your age. All your life ahead of you. God, I had so many plans, all these things I was going to do,' he laughed. 'All long forgotten now, though. Wonder what happened to them all?' Suddenly, he frowned. 'Don't do what I did, Sherlock. Don't forget what you want. Don't just do what your brother wants. Don't get married and get a job just because it's what everyone else expects of you. If there is anything you want to do, then do it. Wish someone had told me that growing up.' _Again with the cheerleader routine,_ John thought. W_hat is my problem?_ It was true though. He really wished someone had told him not to watch everyone else and do the things people expected of him. He didn't want Sherlock to be like him when he was thirty five. Trapped in the suburbs with a mediocre job and a boring life, complaining that nothing exciting ever happened to him. Sherlock deserved better than that. Heck _he _deserved better than that, he just didn't know exactly what to do about it.

Sherlock nodded right as they pulled up to his house far too soon for his tastes. He'd felt so peaceful inside the car, but now there was the clawing fear in his guts that descended whenever he came home.

'See you tomorrow, Sherlock. Remember what I said earlier. I'm always here if you need me.'

The door was unlocked, and the fear mounted inside him as he tentatively opened the door. He turned around to watch Mr Watson's car pull away, staring until he couldn't see the car any longer. He kept on looking long after that, as if somehow Mr Watson was going to come back, pull him into his arms and take him far, far away before Sherlock had to go into that house. Finally, he turned and headed inside. He heard faint snoring sounds from the living room, drunken, wheezy snores. Poking his head round the door, he saw that his father was fast asleep on the sofa with his mouth open, a line of drool running down his fat chin. Some shitty TV programme was blaring in the background, and cans of beer littered the coffee table.

He ran up to his bedroom, threw his bag on his bed, and then rooted through its contents, pulling out the paper aeroplane Mr Watson had thrown at him earlier. He toyed with it in his fingers, lying back on his pillow. Closing his eyes he brought the paper to his nose, as if a part of it still had his teacher's presence that he could breathe down deep into his body.

'I love you,' he called out in to the dark, but it was lost in the silence of his barren room.


	7. Snow

**Hands On Education.**

**Chapter Seven.**

**Snow**

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><p>He flexed his fingers, feeling the satisfying clicking of his knuckles as he bent then straightened them, holding his long fingers over the strings before pressing down tightly on the metal, the hollow instrument locked between his shoulder and chin. He glanced over the sheets one more time, allowing the pattern of notes past his eyes and into his brain before closing them shut. Darkness fell once more, the bow that he held in his fingertips brought up, ready to bring out the unique noise of the violin. And he began.<p>

He turned his body as the notes danced through him, his veins humming along to what he played. The house silent except for the sweet song of the violin, the room filled with what Sherlock could bring out of the wood. What was once alive, a part of nature and this world had been brought down, shaped, and placed in his arms, to be a slave to his moods and how he played.

Sherlock and the violin worked so well together, a love affair he had never experienced before, they danced together, a melancholic duet between a lost schoolboy and polished maple. Playing the instrument always had a curious effect on him; it made him feel almost entirely still, the manic energy that filled his life and his movements evaporated, leaving him entirely lucid. It was a light in his brain, a clear sunny day where before had been fog. A peaceful melody breaking over him, and suddenly there was no need to think, or to speak, there was nothing to fear, nothing at all.

'Wonderful Sherlock, just wonderful.' His teacher, Kate Lestrade, broke him out of his trance. Snapping his eyes open to see his smiling teacher hovering close by him. Kate couldn't help but smile, she had taught so many people how to play the violin, some with more success than others, but no one could play the way Sherlock did. He went beyond the basic mechanics, and seemed to be able to bring out the very soul of the instrument. She took the violin from him, Sherlock mourned the loss, as the instrument felt like an extension of himself. She packed the violin carefully back inside its case, than handed it back to her student.

'I want you to take it. You need something to practise with when you are at home.' She smiled sweetly at him. Sherlock was thrown; always weary when someone was nice to him.

'I can't afford it.' He shrugged his shoulders, oh how he wanted a violin for his very own, but he didn't have the cash to buy one. There was no point asking his father, and he refused to go to Mycroft. Even thinking of the name caused a strange kind of anger to boil in his stomach.

'It's a gift Sherlock, don't worry I won't miss it, it's had about five owners already before me and I know you will take good care of it.' She handed the violin back into his arms. Sherlock knew she was telling the truth, just looking at the old, battered wood, he could deduce it had had many previous owners. Kate had many other violins, but he was still wary of taking it from her.

'I don't want your pity.' He snapped. A little more forcefully then was intended.

'Okay, if you don't want to take it perhaps you could rent it from me, I'm sure we can arrange a weekly rate and I'll add it to the price of your violin lessons. Okay?'

Sherlock nodded and they agreed a price. He was a difficult student, but like John Watson, Kate Lestrade knew just how to handle him.

Carefully balancing the violin over the handlebars of his bicycle, Sherlock rode home as fast as he could. He wanted to bring the violin out of its case again, like releasing a bird from a cage to hear it sing. He wanted to play it, for hours, until his fingers bled and they curled in on themselves, begging him that they couldn't handle another note. He wanted to fill his room with the sweet, sad sound. To play it, to love it, to make it an extension of himself and his being, the thoughts filled his mind as he peddled. He passed a house and was forced to stop, a policemen was sealing off the area with yellow tape. He watched intently as yet more police swarmed around the street, coming as if from nowhere to fill the quiet suburban setting. He felt a desperate desire to know exactly what was going on. On the opposite side of the street, standing a fair distance from the crowd was two figures, a man and a woman, the man kept looking around as if to make sure no one was watching, before stretching his hand out and placing it on the small of the woman's back. An intimate gesture no one saw, no one except Sherlock.

* * *

><p>For as long as Gregory Lestrade could remember he had wanted to be a police officer. His job was unglamorous, messy, long hours and far too much paperwork, but he honestly could not imagine doing anything else. He was a good one at that, a dam fine one he told himself as he drained his third cup of coffee that morning. He was frustrated, what should have been an open and shut murder case had dragged on and on.<p>

Lily Roberts, returns home with her friend Laura White only for a man to come out the living room door, shoots Lily in the head and scarpers. It seemed so simple, a burglary gone wrong but his team had scrambled about for days now trying to find a lead, or a hint, or something but no luck. No murder weapon and a shooter who had disappeared into thin air. Running his hands through his silvery hair in frustration as he tried to determine what the fuck had happened to the poor women. The only thing they had to go one was a brief description of the man Laura White had given them, average build and height, light blonde hair, Lestrade groaned, so many people fitted that description. Every time they thought they were getting somewhere it was back to square one. Everyone wanted results, and Lestrade simply couldn't deliver. The papers were having a field day, claiming that the unsolved crime was down to the incompetence of Lestrade and his team.

He came home that night, hoping for a few hours rest, hoping that the cogs in his mind would click into place and suddenly everything would reveal itself, clear as day. He walked into his sitting room only to find a tall man, who couldn't have been any more than seventeen standing there, clutching a copy of the Bakerford Gazette, with a large picture of Mrs Roberts on the front page, and the most intense look in his eyes.

'Who are you?' he demanded. 'What the hell are you doing in my house?'

'Your wife let me in; she said I could wait for you.' He spoke calmly, as if he waited in strangers houses every day of his life.

'And you are?' he grumbled, he didn't have time for this; all he wanted was a cold beer and an evening lounging about watching crap telly.

'Sherlock Holmes. I'm here to help you.' The boy brimmed with confidence, Lestrade found it slightly unsettling. When he was that age he couldn't even ask the girl he liked out to the cinema, let alone confront a police inspector in his own home. Lestrade would have laughed at the scene playing out before him, but he was too tired and irritable. He found he couldn't take his eyes of the young man, with his grey eyes and intense stare, he recognised that look, had seen it plenty of times on his colleagues, it was the look of someone who knew what they were doing, who had utter faith in themselves.

'You do know that what you're asking me to do is illegal?'

'Please just give me five minutes with those files and I will crack it for you.' He didn't look away from Lestrade for one moment, his gaze unwavering.

'What makes you think you can solve it? I have my best men on the job and you're still in school.'

The young man cocked his head and grinned. 'Because I'm Sherlock Holmes.'

* * *

><p>John Watson sipped at his pint hearing Lestrade tell his story, his arms flailing about in anger.<p>

'There he was, in my fucking living room telling me that he could solve the case. And do you know what he said.' He raised his eyebrows in astonishment 'he said 'because I'm Sherlock Holmes.' As if that is supposed to convince me!'

John smiled, he could picture Sherlock in Lestrade's living room, filled with youthful exuberance, his tall features and dark curly hair, eyes brimming with life. If anyone could walk into a police officer's home and demand they let him help on a murder case, it was Sherlock Holmes. Whether he was a teenager or not.

John had noticed just how much their relationship had changed in the past few weeks. The pair had grown closer, almost to the point of being inseparable, as if they were unable to stay away from each other. John would feel twinges, and ache in his heart until he was back in the presence of Sherlock. Nothing felt right unless he was close to him. They would chat, in libraries, or school corridors. Sometimes he would bump into Sherlock on the street and he would invite Sherlock round for cups of tea, or accompany him when he walked his dog. John took to bringing his lunch to the school library just to sit with Sherlock. He would eat and they would talk. Sometimes about nothing, sometimes about everything. He felt something stir in his stomach, something he hadn't felt in a long time.

'You should let him.' John remarked, resting his pint glass on the table.

'What?' Lestrade raised both eyebrows in surprise.

'I teach him, he is the most intelligent person I have ever met; I bet he could solve the case.'

Lestrade huffed and ran his hands through his hair. 'Do I have a choice?' He grumbled.

'Depends how badly you want this case solved.' John smiled at his friend.

* * *

><p>Sherlock fiddled with the zip on his coat for what felt like the hundredth time, filled to the brim with nervous energy he rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet. His teacher, Mr Watson stood closely by him and smiled at the young man.<p>

'You will be fine.' John said calmly, trying to soothe Sherlock's nerves. Sherlock nodded, finding that he had completely lost his ability to speak. He glanced at his watch, any minute now. Lestrade had told them to meet him outside Bakerford police station at noon. He insisted John accompany him, to act as as a sort of chaperone, adding that 'I'm not having a teenager run amok in my office.'

It was freezing outside; winter well underway and Sherlock had to stuff his hands inside his coat pockets in a desperate attempt to stay warm. A blue scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. Mycroft hadn't come home for Christmas, spending the holidays in Oxford while Sherlock spent most of it either in his room or in the library, but he had sent Sherlock a present through the post. At first Sherlock ignored it, it was from his brother after all. But he found he liked the design, the feel of the soft fabric against his neck, and now he wouldn't go anywhere without it.

A snowflake fell down on Sherlock's nose. He smiled, concentrating on the white speck till he went cross eyed. A thick layer of snow had carpeted the ground. The snow had started on his first day back at school, and was unrelenting. He remembered being reunited with Mr Watson, seeing his kind face again. The familiar ache of his heart, when his teacher smiled at him. Knowing that he was closer to Watson than anyone else in the entire school. A secret smile that he only ever gave Sherlock. They were friends and it filled Sherlock with such a unique joy he almost felt giddy. John had even given him his mobile number, though he hadn't had the courage to text him anything.

Lestrade didn't notice how closely the pair were standing next to each other when he arrived. Instead he gave Sherlock a sort of glare and led them inside to a small room. Completely bare except for a table and some chairs. Taking off their coats he seated Sherlock in front of a small table then handed his a vanilla colour folder.

'Everything we have is in here. I'm giving you fifteen minutes to look over it, that's it.' Sherlock nodded, glanced at his watch again then began to pull all the papers out of the folder. Scattering them over the desk and began to read. Lily Roberts and Laura White return home. A man opens the solid oak door carrying a torch in one hand and a gun in the other. Lily screams, then is shot by the man who promptly disappears into the night. Sherlock pouted, he read the description of the man but couldn't work out how he could have simply vanished. He flicked through the photos, the body of Lily Roberts, pictures of Laura White and the husband. The husband. Of course.

'Before you say anything it wasn't the husband, he was out of town, firm alibi.' Sherlock was undeterred, looking back at a picture of the outside of the house. The neat hedgerows caught his eye.

'Does the husband like gardening?' He asked Lestrade who raised a quizzical eyebrow.

'What the hell has that got to do with anything?'

'Look how neat the hedge is, all except this part here. A keen gardener wouldn't let his hedge be like that, and I can see he is from the rest of his garden and how neat the other parts of the hedge are' He pointed at the foliage with a long finger 'This bit is slightly bent at the bottom, do you see where some of the leaves are broken, someone tried to hide something there, I reckon if you take a look you will find the gun.'

'Okay shooter panics and hides gun in the hedge.' Lestrade groaned, he should have spotted that ages ago. He messaged Sally telling her to look under the hedge. He hoped Sherlock was right.

'Okay times up. Thank you Sherlock you have been most helpful.'

'No wait, there is something else, just give me a minute.' Sherlock knew something was wrong, he had missed something, they all had but he didn't know what it was. He glanced down at the words, waiting for something to form in his brain, to click into place.

'I said fifteen minutes, that was all, come on son you've done really well now let me take it from here.'

'No!' Sherlock yelped. There was something, something else.

Then it caught his eye and suddenly it all made sense. He smiled, he had done it.

'He opened the door.' Sherlock grinned at Lestrade.

'Sorry?' Lestrade looked at Sherlock, then at John who looked equally as confused.

Sherlock huffed wondering how two adult males could be so slow on the uptake.

'The door to the living room was heavy, solid oak, it says so in the notes, he would have to have used one hand to turn the handle and another to push it open. Yet in her statement Laura White says that he had a torch in one hand and a gun in the other. That is impossible, no way could he have opened the door if both hands were occupied.'

He saw realisation dawn on the pair of them.

'There was no man.' Sherlock continued. 'I guarantee when you dust the gun under the hedge for fingerprints you will find Laura White fingerprints on them, no one else's.'

'But why would she kill her friend?' John asked.

'She is in love with her husband, they've been having an affair, I saw them outside the house when I was cycling home from a violin lesson, he touched the small of her back, such an intimate gesture you wouldn't give a friend of your dead wife, unless you are unhappily married, look at how dirty his wedding ring is' He pointed at a picture of the husband. 'Clearly he does not love Lily. So Laura White kills off her friend, panics, buries the gun under the hedge and makes up some story about a intruder. Her description of the shooter is quite generic, easily sounds like it has been made up on the spot.'

Sherlock beamed. He had done it, solved his first case and he hadn't even broken into a sweat. He was born for this.

Lestrade stood open mouthed at him. He could not believe someone who was still at school, could solve a murder that he couldn't, and in fifteen minutes.

John had watched intently as Sherlock read through the files. The look of extreme concentration on his face followed by solving a murder no one else could figure out. The strange feeling in the pit of his stomach was back, he couldn't help but want to be around Sherlock. To need to be around him, like two opposite ends of a magnet drawn together.

A few days later Laura White confessed everything and was promptly arrested. The gun was found under the hedge just like Sherlock had said, providing the key piece of evidence Lestrade needed, along with Laura White's confession. The case was solved, and it was all thanks to Sherlock.

'Fancy coming round mine later?' John asked Sherlock as they were leaving the police station. Sarah was round her mums again, he only wanted Sherlock round when Sarah was away, he found that he had become quite possessive over his friend, not wanting to share him with anyone, fearing Sarah would spoil him somehow, so he was only invited over when he knew Sarah wouldn't disturb them. He found himself becoming jealous when he saw Sherlock talking to other teachers, or fellow pupils. Or when they were together and Sherlock's attention was on something else. It made him angry inside though he wasn't entirely sure why. Sherlock was his own person, but John wanted him entirely for himself. Wanted to hide him away from the rest of the world, till it was just him and Sherlock and no one else. They had formed such an intense connection that if he could brand Sherlock with 'Property of John Watson' then he would.

'Sure.'

So Sherlock spent the evening at John's place. Something that was fast becoming routine. John couldn't be asked to cook anything, so they ordered a takeaway pizza. They talked, Sherlock did some homework and John read a book, then they settled down in front of the TV. John pouring himself a glass of wine.

'Can I have a glass?' Sherlock asked. He had never tried any type of alcohol before and was curious.

John tilted his head, 'Alright, just one, then it's back to the coke for you okay?'

Sherlock nodded. John poured him a generous amount of red and handed him a glass. Sherlock had never had wine before but he found he liked the taste, it was very acidic, and he screwed up his faced after the first few sips but then found it to be very pleasant. He had already drained half the glass before the movie John had put on even started.

'Alright slow down.' John warned him.

'It's nice.' He shrugged.

Halfway through the film John relented and let Sherlock have another glass, by his third Sherlock found that he had begun to feel quite woozy, he had another glass, finding that red wine suited him really well. John tried to say no at first, but he found that if he would look at him in a certain way, eyes big and bright, bottom lip almost quivering, his mouth slightly pouting, he relented. The room was spinning a bit and he found it hard to focus. He giggled lightly to himself.

'What's so funny?'

'Nothing.' He hiccupped. He tried to get up from the sofa, standing up then falling back onto it almost immediately.

'Oh god you're drunk.' John groaned.

Sherlock carried on giggling as John made him drink a large glass of water, which he proceeded to get mostly down his front.

'Right, lie down.' He directed Sherlock 'I'm gonna wait till you sober up a bit then I'm taking you home.'

Sherlock yawned and nodded. John wrapped a blanket tightly over him as he lay back down on the sofa, he used John's leg as a pillow and promptly fell asleep.

John found he quite liked Sherlock head on his thigh, he played with Sherlock's curls with his fingers as he watched the rest of the film. Listening to Sherlock's steady breathing. Great. His wife would be home later and he had just got his pupil drunk and made his thigh into a pillow! Brilliant. Just brilliant.

Sherlock woke up about an hour later.

'Come on let's get you home.' John fetched his coat and shoes, then made Sherlock drink a few more glasses of water before fetching his car keys.

'Do you feel sick.'

Sherlock shook his head 'Just woozy.'

'Have another glass of water before bed, a good night's sleep and you should be alright, though if you have a headache it's your own fault.' John warned him.

Sherlock found that he quite liked bossy John, he was shocked that his brain conjured up thoughts of John bossing him about in bed together. He tried so hard to hide those types of thoughts away whenever he was around the older man, but with the wine coursing through his veins he found that he couldn't control what he felt. The alcohol made him feel lightheaded to the point where he felt like he could do anything he wanted. Anything at all. It was euphoric.

'Yes sir.' He tried to do an army salute but struck himself in the eye, then when he flung his arm out he almost hit John in the jaw.

'Sorry.' He giggled but John did not look amused.

'Home. Now.'

* * *

><p>Sherlock lay in bed that night, sound asleep. He found his dreams to be surprisingly vivid. Filled with naked John, tongues, hands, teeth, he woke up to a banging headache and dried cum in his boxer shorts. He had ejaculated sometime in the night, probably when he dreamt of Mr Watson giving him a blow job. He must have been pretty out of it when not even an orgasm could wake him. Groaning softly to himself he dug his head from underneath the pillow and went to the bathroom to clean himself off. His felt terrible, the rooms spinning round and round, his head banging in pain, he felt dehydrated and sick. His first hangover. He was never drinking again. Why the hell did adults do this?<p>

* * *

><p>Sherlock was packing his school things into his bag at the end of biology when he saw John approach him. He felt close enough to his teacher to refer to him by his first name. Though never aloud, whenever he spoke to the older man it was always 'Mr Watson.'<p>

'Hello Sherlock, Lestrade wants to speak with you at the station, I can take you in if you like?' Sherlock watched as John blushed and stammered slightly over his words, something he was doing more and more often, though he wasn't sure why.

'Okay.' He nodded

The pair drove to the police station and this time Lestrade brought them to his office. It was much more personal than the previous room. Pictures of Lestrade and his wife dotted about, a couple of pictures of a amateur football team he was clearly part of. Sherlock furrowed his brows wondering what the man wanted.

'Listen Sherlock, I'm not going to beat around the bush here, I brought you here because I want to make a deal with you.'

'A deal?'

'Yes. You see, I know you're really proud of yourself, solving that murder case.'

'I am.'

'Well, you see, it's going to look really bad if you start telling everyone it was you that solved the case. Can you imagine the headlines if the papers realised the police went to a schoolboy for help? Especially after all the accusations over police incompetence. I'm gonna get in a lot of trouble.' Normally Lestrade would have put on a patronising voice, speaking slowly to a member of the public, a bad habit he couldn't quite shake off. But Sherlock was too intelligent for that, they all knew it.

'So you want me to keep quiet?'

'Yes, I don't want you to tell anyone, no journalists or your school chums, or anyone. I just want this to stay between the three of us. He gestured to himself and John, who hadn't said a word during Sherlock and Lestrade's exchange.

'Okay, but what do I get in return?'

'Well, our forensics department is pretty tiny, but the lab you may find interesting. Run by a women called Irene Adler, we have agreed that you can be her assistant, every weekend, for as long as you like.'

'A lab assistant, here at the station?' Sherlock felt his interests rising.

'Yes. And if you're very good, and do everything Miss Adler tells you to, I may even let you help me out on a few cases, so, how does that sound?'

* * *

><p>Sherlock practically skipped out of the police station. Lestrade agreed he could start next Saturday. Sherlock felt like his birthday and Christmas had all come at once. Running down the steps of the station to the street he turned to find John running after him.<p>

'Can you believe it?' He exclaimed to the older man. 'My very own lab.'

John laughed 'Well I think you'll find its Miss Adler's lab, but yes, it's awfully good of Greg to let you help out.'

They walked down the street for a bit, Sherlock still on cloud nine and John simply enjoying seeing the young man so happy.

'I need to take Poppy for a walk, fancy coming along.' Unable to tear himself away from the youths presence, something about him fitted John so well and now he couldn't be without him. They trudged together in the snow, John smiling at how the flecks of white that fell over Bakerford would catch themselves in Sherlock's dark curls, he looked so young and innocent. An innocence John wished would never be sullied by the outside world. That he would stay inquisitive, youth and energy filling those bright grey eyes of his.

'Sure.' Sherlock grinned, always leaping at the chance to spend more time with him.

They fetched Poppy, walking aimlessly around Bakerford, past the streets and houses, into the woods and countryside beyond. Poppy had never seen snow before in her life, John had never seen the dog so excited, rolling around in the white stuff, barking and running round the pair of them.

They had walked into a secluded field, just beyond a line of trees, when John suddenly become overcome by a feeling of total mischievousness. He knelt down pretending to do up a loose shoelace and let Sherlock walk ahead of him. While Sherlock's back was turned he packed snow tightly in his hands forming a tight ball.

'Sherlock.' He called, the youth turned around and John struck, flinging the snowball hard and fast at the tall figure hitting him squarely in the side of his head. John giggled to himself at the look to horror and confusion that surrounded Sherlock's features before ducking behind a tree. He formed another snowball quickly, ready for the next onslaught.

Silence fell. The only sound was Poppy barking at the both of them. Suddenly something very cold and hard hit him in the back of the neck, wet snow falling down the back of his coat.

'Dammit.' John laughed, a few more snowballs pelted him before he spotted Sherlock's dark figure amongst the trees. John threw the snowball and it his Sherlock on the left shoulder. He ran, laughing to himself in his dark baritone.

John ran after him, 'Come here.' He yelled at Sherlock between giggles. Catching up with him he wrapped his arms round his slim waist and tackled him to the floor. Straddling his waist and pinning the younger man to the ground, feeling Sherlock's sharp hips against his groin as he wriggled, trying to break free of John.

'Mercy, have mercy please.' Sherlock laughed. He looked so angelic against the snow, his curls splayed out, a dark against the white backdrop, he cheeks flushed red with cold, his mouth drawn out into a smile that melted John's heart, his long eyelashes fluttering underneath him as he laughed.

John felt something posses him, his hands gripped tightly around Sherlock's shoulders, bringing him up off the ground. His hips nestled between John's thighs, feeling the warmth of his groin. John felt the smile fade from his face as he stared at Sherlock, running his fingers in Sherlock's hair holding him in place.

He looked so beautiful like this, John felt something in his brain come to the forefront, something he had been trying to ignore for weeks now. Something that had always been there, ever since he had met Sherlock, everything had been bubbling under the surface and now it was coming crashing to the forefront whether John was ready for it or not. What had once been lost, been kept in a darkened corner in his mind he now recognised. Something had stopped those thoughts being lost, the escaped rays now projected onto the surface of his mind, forming a complete picture.

Sherlock was what was missing from his life. He wanted Sherlock. He needed Sherlock. He was in love with Sherlock.

He grabbed Sherlock's head forcefully and crashed their lips together. Sherlock let out a groan of surprise and John wondered if he was going to pull away, instead he wrapped his arms around John's neck bringing him closer. His lips felt so warm, so soft under John's. John began to move him mouth and Sherlock kissed back with enthusiasm. Inhaling Sherlock's unique scent, one of warmth, spice and something vaguely exotic. John forced his lips apart then drove his tongue into Sherlock's open mouth, savouring the heat as he explored Sherlock's wet cavern with his tongue. His taste buds full of Sherlock, his mind went into overdrive, he kissed with force and Sherlock seemed quite happy to let him takeover, to lie back and let John dominate him. John pushing his body into Sherlock's, their bodies lying flushed against each other in the snow. He slipped his hands into Sherlock's coat, feeling everywhere, running them along his torso and chest.

'Sherlock, oh Sherlock.' He moaned, holding him tightly in his arms. Squeezing him. He ran a hand from his hair along his cheekbone, feeling nothing but soft, pliant skin underneath his fingers. Cupping his cold cheek then running his nose and cheek against the soft material of his scarf, kissing along his jawbone.

He wanted to take Sherlock, right here in the snow. He wanted to make him moan and scream, he wanted to push his cock into Sherlock's virginal arse and completely posses him. His cock was thick and heavy against Sherlock's hip.

'I love you.' Sherlock whispered into his ear. Burying himself against John's neck. 'Oh I love you Mr Watson. John. Oh god John.'

'My boy, my sweet boy.' John felt tears prick at his eyes threatening to form.

Sarah's image came to John. Oh god Sarah. He was married. Sherlock was sixteen, fucking sixteen! How could he be so stupid? What the fuck was he doing? Sherlock felt the older man go completely stiff.

'What's wrong?'

'Sherlock I'm so sorry' he climbed off the ground, ran to Poppy who had been lying beside them, grabbing her by the collar and tying the lead back round her neck. 'Oh god I'm so so sorry. Please forgive me Sherlock. Please.'

And he ran, he ran as fast as he could as far as he could. He didn't even know where he was going he just needed to get away from the figure lying in the snow.

Sherlock lay back into the ground, feeling the wetness seep into his clothes. He was soaked, from his hair to his jeans everything was wet from being pushed into the snow. He had been kissed, John had kissed him and it had felt glorious. He felt like he was in the middle of a dream, lying in the snow having been thoroughly kissed by the man he loved most in the entire world. He should get up out of the wet and cold, but he found that he couldn't move. His limbs not listening to what he wanted.

John burst through the door of his house, thankful Sarah was at work so he had time to compose himself. The first thing he did was punch the closest available wall as hard as he could, he glanced at his knuckles, watching the redness but feeling no pain. Yet. He panted, lowering himself to the floor and wrapping his hands round his head. What had he done?

Oh god what had he done?

* * *

><p><strong>Dun Dun Duuuuuuun. Hoping to get another update out as soon as I can. :) Hope you enjoyed this my wonderful, sexy readers. <strong>


	8. Anyone's Ghost

**What is this? An update that didn't take absolutely months to appear? Yeah I know. Odd. **

**Oh the angst, oh the terrible, terrible angst.**

**Enjoy! And please review! **

**MB xxxxxxx**

**(Fact Fan's the Title for this chapter shamelessly stolen from a song by The National. If you have never heard of them then what the hell are you doing reading this? Go listen immedietly, they are _amazing_) **

* * *

><p><span>Hands on Education.<span>

Chapter Eight. 

Anyone's Ghost. 

He didn't know what to do, he couldn't even contemplate what exactly it was he had done, let alone try and figure a way to resolve the situation. He was lost in a maze of his own doing. Running around in a panic, desperately trying to find the exit. Find a route. Find a way out. It was all his fault of course, all his own stupid fault. He had never cheated on anyone before, he was the man with quite strength, loyal, dependable, and ever since university it had been what the girls had come to him for. Why they wanted to be him, 'John Watson, may not be the most exciting man but he will never let you down.' That was his big attraction. Until now. It was almost as if he had had an out of body experience, the man kissing Sherlock so violently, filled with such want, passion, and downright lust, it didn't seem to be him at all. He didn't even know that side of him even existed, that this side of his personality had lain dormant for all these years, only to be unleashed now, like a sleeping dragon that Sherlock Holmes had woken up. He couldn't put that side of him alongside John Watson, married man, humble biology teacher, lover of jumpers and tea. This new John Watson, it wasn't him at all.

He was nothing to Sherlock, nothing at all. And Sherlock was nothing to him. What they had together wasn't tangible, couldn't be seen or measured, all John had with him was a need, one that overcame him, had threatened to consume him, it was purely based on feelings he didn't quite understand, a connection built out of a certain kind of loneliness that they had both felt. There was nothing with an actual physical presence, nothing that he could hold in his hands, nothing that actually bound them together. It could slip away from him at any moment, like water running through his hands. With Sarah it was different. Oh so very different. They had a house together, their vows of commitment officially recognised, a ring weighing down his left hand. They had built a life together. He had married Sarah with every intention of the pair of them growing old together, he needed to honour that.

Then there was his job, if the head found out he would be fired immediately. He wouldn't teach again. He was confident that Sherlock wouldn't tell anyone, he had no real friends, a few casual acquaintances, but no one he had a true connection with. Or at least, no one that he could tell this kind of thing to. Maybe he would tell his father, he mentioned having a brother. Or maybe not, he had a distinct distrust of authority of most boys his age, and he lived the life of an island. No connections, a man completely of his own. A loner. Besides would anyone actually believe Sherlock if he did say anything?

John could only hope that is if distanced himself away from Sherlock, if he cut all ties, hoped he kept silent, and if he stayed silent himself, pretended nothing had happened, then maybe he could ride this one out. H needed to forget all about it, and so did Sherlock. It was a blip, a bump in the road, a mistake. Nothing. So then why did the idea of separating himself from Sherlock make him feel physically sick?

He was still pacing around the hallway when Sarah returned. She had barely said hello when John grabbed her, pulling her close into his arms roughly, and crushing their bodies together in a tight embrace. Sarah tried to back away, asked him what the hell was he doing, but he did not let go. He was surprisingly strong and easily held her in place. He crushed his lips to hers, as hard as he could till he tasted a coppery taste in his mouth from where he had bitten her bottom lip. He needed her, a frantic haste coming from nowhere drove him.

'John, what the hell are you doing?' Sarah tried to pull out his arms again, and again John did not let go.

'I need you. I need you right now' He dragged her upstairs to their bedroom. He flung the door open with such force it rattled in its hinges. Pushing her down on their bed he kissed her forcefully, then began to tear at her skirt, pulling off her shoes and socks, followed by her tights then her underwear. He drove his fingers into her tight heat, rubbing his thumb against her clit. He bended down and darted his tongue inside her, running it along her wet folds, tasting her, savouring her. Licking and nipping at the smooth skin on the insides of her thighs, then back to her entrance. He ran his tongue along the soft muscle, feeling it pulse and quiver.

'John.' She groaned. Her resistance to him vanished as she came apart at John's unrelenting tongue. He felt her cum, crying out his name then gasping, bucking her hips backwards and forwards as he drew out her orgasm.

He drew his half hard cock from his trousers, stroking himself desperately in a futile attempt to make himself hard enough. This is what you want, this, not Sherlock. This. You want this, you're married to this. He told himself. Spreading Sarah's legs, he positioned himself between her thighs and entered her in one swift movement, filling his wife's thin body. He watched her writhe beneath him, completely coming apart underneath his body and he fucked her. She groaned, she moaned, she panted his name. She begged for more. Harder. Faster. Come on John. Screw me.

He felt nothing. He waited for the intense feeling of love, the rush of affection to suddenly hit him as he penetrated her. He waited, till he felt that this was home, that this was where he belonged. Sarah continued to writhe beneath him, her eyes filled with joy and desire, yet he felt entirely blank, he felt entirely hollow. His orgasm dribbled out of him, wasn't even worth mentioning. He broke away and lay on his back, panting.

'What was that about?' Sarah asked grinning, she adjusted her clothes 'Not that I'm complaining.' She spotted something and frowned. 'My god what happened to your hand?' She took John's hand, the one he had punched a wall with, into hers, it had swollen slightly, the gashes along the knuckles had turned a violent red colour.

'Nothing.' He grumbled, snatching his hand away. He couldn't look at Sarah, he looked at the wall, the ceiling, anywhere but his wife's face. Feeling if he did she would know the truth, that while he was shagging her his mind kept wandering, had filled itself with angular features, dark curly hair and intense eyes. He screwed his eyes shut, shaking his head, trying oh so hard to forget. He escaped to the shower, his tears mixing in with the water that pooled at his feet and circled round the drain.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stared down the lens of the microscope and smiled to himself.<p>

'The pollen spores don't match; tell Lestrade he arrested the wrong man.'

Irene Adler smiled at him, something she had done all day. It was his first day helping out at the lab and she had done nothing but flirt outrageously with him. He wasn't sure if she had any genuine affection for him, or if she was just doing to make him feel uncomfortable, to push his buttons.

'It's alright I already told him.' She grinned.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

'One glance at the blood pool and I knew he wasn't our man.' She continued, she sounded almost bored at the whole thing. Her tone full of disappointment. That this wasn't exciting enough. Or interesting enough. That Lestrade had let her down.

'Then why did you make me do all these experiments?' Sherlock was confused, she knew the answer all ready so why did she make Sherlock do all this work? They could have done something else. Moved onto another case rather than have him chasing round all over the place.

'Because I wanted to see if you were as good as Lestrade said you were. You know what he called you? Boy genius. I thought to myself let's do a little test, let's see if you can figure it out all by yourself.' She answered.

'And did I pass?' he said dryly.

'With flying colours.' She winked. 'I'm looking forward to teaching you a thing or to Sherlock.' She winked again, her voice dripping with innuendo.

The lab was small, a few rooms that didn't seem to belong to the original building of the police station, as if someone had stuck them on as an afterthought. The walls stark white and filled to the brim with various lab equipment, everywhere was full, the very definition of organised chaos. There were files, microscopes, Petri dishes and various other scientific paraphernalia just haphazardly strewn about all over the room. Irene seemed to know where everything was. Sherlock was silently in awe of her, she was the type of women who seemed to be able to fill a room with her mere presence, Sherlock was used to hiding in the shadows, yet she took over everything. She could take on the entire world and probably win. She was beautiful to, with her blood red lips and dark brown hair pulled neatly into a bun. He was on edge around her and she knew it, she seemed to take such delight in bringing him to his knees. Making him blush and wince. She had probably had bigger men then him for breakfast, he was putty in her perfectly manicured hands, she was overtly sexual and seemed to revel in this fact, but also fiercely intelligent. For the first time in his life Sherlock felt he may have met his match.

* * *

><p>He walked home inflated, adrenaline coursing through his veins after a full day at the lab. He waited in his room, sitting on his bed watching his small clock, watching as the hands ticked by, round and round the small face, till both came to twelve. Midnight exactly. He crept to the bathroom and stared at himself closely. Noting every dark curl. Every line and freckle. The shape and colour of his lips. He whistled the tune to happy birthday quietly to himself.<p>

He was now seventeen years old.

His thoughts turned back, yet again, to the kiss he had had with John in the snow. The first proper kiss of his entire life, it had completely taken over him. Feeling John's lips move against his, the weight of his body pushing into him, dominating him, taking whatever he wanted from Sherlock and Sherlock just letting him, was perfectly happy to do so. He let John slip his tongue into his mouth, let him explore him. Let his lips move against his, to nibble and lick and take exactly as they wanted, but giving him so much in return.

It had answered so many questions he had had for months now, what was it like kissing John (perfect), what did John taste like (delightful), did John kiss with tongues (oh yes he most certainly did), was kissing boring (no). He found that he wanted to kiss John again, that somehow having all this information, having all these questions answered, simply wasn't enough. He wanted to carry on kissing John. To kiss and be kissed by John between now and the end of time. He wanted so much from John, he had been in love with him for months now, yet he had never once thought for one moment John had any desire for him. That John could return his love could somehow love Sherlock the way he loved him, it was almost too much to bear. Too much to handle. There had been no warning, nothing to say John wanted to kiss him, it had come entirely out the blue. He normally hated surprises, he saw them as an insult to his intelligence, that he couldn't figure something out, that someone could hide something from the man who saw everything, that something could take him off guard. But he had like this surprise very much. Very much indeed.

Then John had said he was sorry, and then ran away in that most spectacular manor. Was he sorry for kissing him? Did he regret it? He was married but Sherlock knew he was not happy. And if he loved Sarah why was he kissing him? He was so confused. His brain, usually so sharp, could not figure this one out.

* * *

><p>He never usually dreamt, the nights long and entirely empty, full of a unique black nothingness known only to the sleeping and the dead. It was entirely unique and he imagined this must be what it was like to be deep inside a black hole, entirely consumed by the emptiness around, no escape until you awoke. His dreams were so rare that he was acutely aware of whenever one was happening, and it was happening now.<p>

He looked around, it was his room, well, his and Sarah's room technically but he was alone, he was lying in the bed, his body propped up against the headboard by pillows and cushions. He felt so comfortable and relaxed, something he hadn't felt for a long time when he was awake. He started to wonder why he was dreaming of lying on his bed, completely naked when the door to the room opened and a shadowy figure appeared. At first he thought it was Sarah, after all it had to be Sarah, who else could it be? But then he squinted and slowly realised that instead of feminine curves, hips and breasts, the figure was unmistakably male, tall, straight up and down. Then he squinted again and suddenly the figure seemed to grown curly black hair, he stopped squinting but it didn't matter because by now the figure was in focus.

'Sherlock why are you in my dream?' He asked stupidly, after all he would hardly receive a logically answer when dreams are most famous for being random and illogical.

John took a few moments to take in just how pretty Sherlock was, the unruly curly hair that just begged to have fingers run through it, so dark it looked dyed, the pale skin, perfect lips, oh god the lips, how come he never noticed how beautiful they were before? The cupids bow just begged to be kissed.

Sherlock shook his head and put a long finger to his lips. Then pulled at his school tie and removed it from his neck, such a long neck to, so white and looked so soft. John had never noticed before either. Dream Sherlock was now removing his school blazer and white school shirt. The buttons underneath his dexterous fingers slowly revealing smooth white skin. John's mouth went dry and he felt the unmistaken feeling of desire pooling in his stomach.

'Fuck me John.'

Oh god even in a dream those words made his head spin. Suddenly his hard cock was buried deep down inside Sherlock. His mind playing out the image of a naked Sherlock riding him. His eyes snapping open, waking up in a pool of sweat with his cock throbbing against his chest.

He was screwed. He wanted Sherlock, the dream, kissing him the snow. He couldn't help himself, he had it bad for his pupil. He knew he couldn't have him, Sherlock was so far away from him. He was so young, John was married, there was so much and yet John's heart still yearned for him. He couldn't bring himself to regret what he did, which is what terrified him the most. He regretted betraying Sarah, of course he did, Sarah was his _wife, _he regretted what he had done to Sherlock, but he could not bring himself to regret actually kissing him. For looking down and taking what he had wanted. If he could relive that moment, he would probably do it all over again. He couldn't have Sherlock, he knew that, but that didn't stop the feelings he had for him from being there in the first place. Dreams were supposedly a reflection of the subconscious, John had never been entirely convinced of this till now, on the surface he was a happily married man but underneath all that lay a man who lusted after Sherlock, the young man seemed to fill every one of his waking moments and now had come to take over his dreams.

Like he said, he was screwed.

* * *

><p>The next day at school John saw Sherlock while walking to his room, the bell had just gone and students were milling about making their way to various classrooms.<p>

'Sir!' Sherlock shouted across the corridor 'Jo- Mr Watson.' He raised his hand and ran over to where John was standing, his hand on the door. The pairs eyes met, silence fell as Sherlock wasn't sure what to say. John looked over him then opened his door.

'Go to your lesson Sherlock.' He sighed and walked inside, closing the door behind him. Leaving a very dejected looking Sherlock standing in the corridor. He didn't go the to the library at lunch, normally he would take his pack lunched and eat it sitting next to St Bartholomew's resident boy genius, but not today, he hid in the teachers' lounge with a cup of coffee, taking the odd nibble of the sandwiches Sarah had made him though he didn't feel very hungry. He hadn't eaten very much since the kiss, simply taking occasional bites here and there but otherwise he had completely lost his appetite.

An entire week had passed since the incident in the snow and still John felt sick to his very stomach. The guilt eating away at him, it felt like acid brewing in his body, dissolving his very bones away. He couldn't think, couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. The memory of what he had done haunting his every waking moment. And yet Sherlock still came to him in his dreams. The image of Sherlock lying there in the snow, black hair, black coat against white still had a powerful effect on him. He felt that he couldn't contain what he felt for Sherlock, whatever it was buzzed through his body and would jump out and any moment, that it would make him explode. Would seep out into the air around him. He became increasingly paranoid, every time Sarah looked at him he felt that she could see shame and guilt written all over his face. That in just a glance she could see his love for his pupil. He wasn't even sure it was love, he had never felt anything like this in his entire life. Keeping himself away from Sherlock was causing him physical pain. Passing by him in corridors, pretending he didn't exist, seeing the hopeful look in his eyes die out whenever he ran away from him. Every time it made John's heart break slightly. He woke up thinking of Sherlock, his last thoughts before he slept were of Sherlock, Sherlock was in his dreams, his entire life was Sherlock. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. And snow, so much snow.

Sherlock was very much like the snow that had fallen over Bakerford. He came and covered over everything that was once there. His mind now nothing but a layer of bleak whiteness, everything covered in a thick layer of Sherlock. He hoped it would melt, fade away and once again everything that is underneath would be free, and it can all go back to what it once was. But he couldn't go back, he could never go back. Once he had tasted those soft lips, explored the sweet mouth with his tongue his world had shifted. The John Watson he had once known had died out there in the snow and in its place was a man he didn't entirely recognise.

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes may not have had much life experience, had not been around on this earth for very long, he was fully aware that being in the awkward transition between child and fully fledged adult meant he knew very little about how everything worked, about human emotions, love and hate , but he dam well knew when he was being ignored. He had tried to speak to John on a number of occasions, cornered him in hallways, waited in their usual spot in the library, had done everything he could just to get John Watson to notice him, and what did he get in return? Nothing. Here was a man who had, only a week ago, wanted him so badly, had kissed him, and now he was running away. Treating Sherlock like a pariah. An outcast. A nobody.<p>

Biology was utter hell, his thoughts and movements, normally so precise were clumsy and erratic. Being so close to the man he loved, yet having that man act as if he was made entirely of air and was completely invisible. He managed to catch John's glare for a few seconds when he sat down to begin the lesson, but the man automatically looked away.

The bell rang and everyone got up to leave.

'Sherlock, stay behind please I need to speak with you.' John said over the chorus of students packing away their belongings and making their way out of the classroom. Sherlock gulped down some nerves and felt his palms clam up. He had a pretty good idea what John wanted to talk to him about, it was about what happened in the snow, and he was certain he wasn't going to ask Sherlock for a repeat performance.

Sherlock stood by John's desk, he had his coat on and school bag over one shoulder. He glanced down at the floor, at his shoes, then up to John who was closing the door to get some privacy, then back to the floor, back to his shoes, he stared intently down at the ground, as if the answer to all of life's questions was somehow on his shoelaces. He thought back to the lab, how easy it had been with Irene, everything in its right place. Everything could be figured out with logic, with science. Everything followed rules, had a set pattern, he could put something under a microscope and learn the way it worked. It could be easily dealt with. He couldn't deal with this. It was all so...messy.

John was paranoid, Sherlock could easily tell, he kept looking round to see no one was looking. Felt flickering his eyes to the door to make sure no one was walking in. The air thick with tension.

Finally John spoke, breaking the heavy silence. 'I just wanted to apologise.'

'What for?' Sherlock mumbled.

John sighed, shaking his head. 'You know what for Sherlock, I'm sorry for what happened last week. I took advantage and I apologise.'

'But you kissed me.' Sherlock just did not understand. Could not understand.

'I know, and I shouldn't have done. Now please just forget this ever happened.'

'No. I won't forget, and I don't regret it either, and you didn't take advantage because I wanted it just as much as you.' Sherlock protested. John sat, perched on his desk, staring at the youths wild eyes as he spoke.

'So you can tell me to forget it but I won't, you can tell me it was a mistake but it wasn't, I wanted you to kiss me, and I would kiss you again if I could.' To emphasise his point Sherlock grabbed hold of John's shoulders bringing his closer, crushing their lips together once again. John felt the sparks fly as their lips met, the skin as soft and as warm as he remembered, he stayed perfectly still, then remembered exactly where he was, and who he was with and pushed Sherlock away, leaping up off the desk towards the window.

'This can't happen Sherlock.' He warned.

'Why not?'

'Because.' John felt exacerbated, he flung his hands in the air. 'Because I'm married Sherlock. Because I'm thirty five and you're seventeen, because I'm your fucking _teacher_. Now please, don't make this harder than it already is, go home and forget anything every happened. Or that anything could ever happen.'

Sherlock had heard enough, he turned on his heels and almost flew out the room. He opened the door and turned his head towards John.

'You're a fucking coward John Watson.' Slamming the door behind him in anger. He felt hot, angry tears threaten to form behind his eyes. He had never felt so mad in all his life. John wanted him, he knew it, could possibly love him. They could have something together and John just outright rejected him. Had treated him as if he was something deeply unpleasant. Not for the first time in his life he wanted to run, he wanted to run as far away as he could and leave this all behind. He wished he had never met John Watson, he wished that John and that stupid life of his had stayed in London so he wouldn't have to live with all of this. He felt as if his heart had been ripped out of his chest. He wished he had never fallen in love in the first place, one passionate kiss in the snow was certainly not worth the unique pain of loss. He walked the short walk home and vowed he would never fall in love again. He had loved, had been loved if only for a few precious moments, and now it was finished. Now it was all over and he could walk away, could put it down to experience, a lesson learnt and he could move on. Of course it wouldn't be simple, every second he was around John was a knife, slowly twisting in his guts but eventually it would pass, as all things pass. He would survive.

He was John's ghost now. Would be put in a part of him mind hoped never to be disturbed. A dark corner that haunted his thoughts. He had now become something that John would always wish to forget.

* * *

><p>'John. John?'<p>

John snapped out of his daydream to see Sarah frowning at him.

'Sorry, what were you saying?'

'Nothing.' She sighed and went back to her dinner. He rubbed his eyes, shaking his head slightly trying to dispel the thoughts that had been running through his mind.

He tried to do the washing up, soaking his hands in the suds as he scrubbed crockery and pans. His mind drifted again, to snow, to warm a warm mouth, sweet lips, duelling tongues.

'Ah!'

Pain hit him suddenly, he pulled out his hand and saw a small cut, where he had pricked his finger with a small knife. Careless. The sharp pain ran through him, dulling his mind for a moment, he watched the crimson red run down his pink flesh.

He was losing his mind, he thought. He didn't know how long he could hold it all together before he lost himself completely.

* * *

><p>'Keep the fucking noise down!'<p>

Sherlock jumped slightly, almost dropping his violin to the ground at his father's harsh words. He had been trying to practise for days now, but every time he even played one note his father would bellow and scream, he knew not to test his father, that his temper was short and unpredictable, so he stopped. He needed to think of a good rehearsal space, somewhere he could go and know he would never be disturbed. Thinking hard for a few moments an idea struck him. He knew just the place. He would go there tomorrow and play for hours completely undisturbed. Yes, that was what he would do.

* * *

><p>The door to the school roof was easily picked, he found himself in the crisp afternoon air. Quiet and peaceful, no one to disturb him, he could stay here for as long as he wanted. He closed the door behind himself and walked to the edge, staring over the school grounds. Everyone had gone home now. The place was entirely deserted, he threw his schoolbag down carelessly. Sitting down at the very edge he dangled his legs over. His violin case at his side. He would practise in a minute, for now he was content just to look out over the grounds of the school. He could see for miles, he breathed in the cold winters air. He felt very calm, he savoured the stillness that surrounded him. Calmness was something he so rarely felt, his life filled with a manic energy, but now he felt relaxed. Pulling out a cigarette from his coat pocket he lit it, breathing in the sweet nicotine into his lungs. He smiled, he didn't know why he didn't come her more often. Hours stretched out before him. Hours of violin practise and smoking. Such a pleasant way to pass the time. For a moment he thought he heard someone shout his name, but when he looked down he saw no one.<p>

* * *

><p>John ran. He ran over the school grounds as fast as he could, through the door of the main building and then up the countless flights of stairs. He wasn't sure what he had seen at first, he had been working late and was on his way home when he spotted a shadowy figure on the roof. Then when he squinted, shielding his eyes with the palm of his hand from the sun, he recognised the figure. Sherlock. He saw the young man dangle his legs over the roof, sitting there quite calmly, panic rushed through his veins. What the fuck was he doing up there? Was he going to jump? He had images of Sherlock lying lifeless on the ground, blood pooling round his body, his young life cut short, and it would be his fault, it would all be his fault. Sherlock was going to end his life, all because John was a massive idiot.<p>

He yelled his name and ran.

No Sherlock. For god sake's Sherlock no!


	9. All I Need

**I know I say this a lot, but seriously, a HUGE thank you to everyone who reviewed/alerted/favourite this. The fact anyone is reading my silly little fic is mind boggling. So I'm gobsmacked at the response. **

** I'm continuing the tradition I started in the last chap, by naming chapters after songs. This time it's Radiohead. **

**Really Really hope you liek this chapter. :)**

**Loves to you all **

**MB**

**XXXXXX**

* * *

><p><span>Hands on Education.<span>

Chapter Nine.

All I Need. 

He wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry, so he ended up doing a strange mixture of both. A stifled giggle, followed by a small wail, piercing through his lungs. His cheeks blushing a bright red, flushed with embarrassment as he felt more and more idiotic with every passing second.

A very confused Sherlock Holmes was being held very tightly in his arms, not having the slightest clue what was going on. One minute he was happily smoking a cigarette, the next minute John Watson had grabbed him from the edge, using all his bodyweight to drag him across the roof. Arms clutched round his middle, words spilling out of his mouth at a tremendous rate. Sherlock didn't understand why John was begging him not to jump, jump where exactly? Sherlock could only make out the odd word as his teacher was speaking so fast, he heard 'jump' 'need' 'I' 'you' 'can't' and, perhaps most shockingly off all, 'please'. He pulled Sherlock's wiry frame into a tight hug, squeezing so hard Sherlock was almost unable to breathe.

He was on the verge of tears before he finally allowed Sherlock to speak. He told his story in quite muffled tones, as he mouth was mostly covered by John's shoulder. He told him why he came up here, how he was perfectly content until John had flung the door open and started screaming at him. There was a long pause as Sherlock's story sunk in. Complete silence, a sound Sherlock had always revelled in, but now felt strangely eerie, almost uncomfortable; it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Sherlock felt the grip round himself loosen, and, if he was being completely honest, was strangely disappointed that he was no longer clutched so close to John, though now he could actually breathe, so he guessed that was a bonus.

'You're practising the violin?' John asked and Sherlock nodded. His arms trapped at his sides, his chest pulled tightly against his teachers, John still not letting him go. The image of Sherlock lying dead on the ground evaporated from John's mind and he felt nothing but a cold, harsh stupidity.

'It's nice up here; I wanted the peace and quiet.'

'Oh'

Sherlock felt an arm curl around his waist and a hand on the back of his head, John's fingers toying with his curls. The sun disappearing behind some clouds, the air tinged with frost, John standing so close to him, their mouths mere inches apart. John finally let him go, and he felt a pang of disappointment at the loss, John sat down, running his hands through his hair, perching on the edge of the rooftop.

'Play me something.' He nodded to his violin case that rested against the wall. 'I've never seen you play before.' He needed the calm of music, he wanted to distract himself from how much of an idiot he had been.

Sherlock nodded, always happy to answer a request from John. Like a puppet on a string, or a puppy fetching a stick.

John watched intently as Sherlock got out his violin, and started playing a mournful, yet hauntingly beautiful tune. He could never get over just quite how adorable Sherlock was at times like this. He was filled with such a vibrant, youthful, passionate energy. Seeing him play the instrument, with his usual look of intense concentration, biting his bottom lip gently as he played. The sound drifting over the roof, and into John's ears. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, then immediately opened his eyes and looked back at Sherlock. Finding he couldn't take his eyes of the young man.

He played the violin like everything else in his life, intricate and precise. It was a stirringly erotic sight. Seeing his long, thin, nimble fingers dance over the strings. Sherlock played the instrument like he would play a lover, with eloquence and grace. With careful, precise movements.

The music was stunning, he was no expert but he couldn't believe just how well Sherlock played. He sounded as if he had been playing all his life, he played so beyond his years, eyes shut, lost in his instrument, performing a private concert just for John.

'That was fucking amazing.' John clapped when Sherlock had finished, a broad grin on his face that made Sherlock's cheeks flush with embarrassment. He suddenly remembered that the only person who had ever heard him play was his teacher, Kate Lestrade. It seemed fitting, after all John was his first love, and his first kiss, this was just another first to add to the ever growing list.

He felt something wet hit his head, then another. Rain began to fall heavily on their private scene, so it was time to leave. He followed John down the stairs, along the silent corridors of the school. Arms occasionally brushing against one another. He was normally was wary human contact, didn't like being hugged or even touched, but with John he craved it, feeling as if he couldn't breathe unless he felt John. He was feeling brave so he reached out and purposely ran his hand against Johns. Running his fingers along his companions hard knuckles. John didn't seem to notice, smiling lightly to himself, he threaded his fingers through John's, expecting John to immediately let go he was so surprised when he didn't, he just carried on walking, hand in hand with his student through the grounds of the school. Biting down on the inside of his cheek to stifle the broad grin he felt utterly drunk on the love he had inside of him. It was exactly the same as being drunk, just like how he remembered, the same feeling of euphoria, the feeling that nothing could touch you, that all worries and nagging doubts that came with life had just floated away.

There was something from yesterday to, John had yelled at him that he was 'only seventeen.' Sherlock had no idea how John knew that his birthday had come, he didn't really care, John possessing such personal knowledge of him, it gave him a thin glimmer of hope.

'Need a lift?'

'Yeah, okay.'

He was so familiar with being in John's car, but the experience still felt special. He still squeezed out every moment, still felt such earthly pleasures where fleeting so he had to enjoy them while they lasted. Happiness had never come easy for him, had always been in small supply, yet with John the sorrow that seemed to cling to him was lifted.

He whistled to himself, today had been a good day. It didn't matter how shit a day he was having, as soon as he saw John all clouds seemed to evaporate and the sun just shone through.

* * *

><p>'Where have you been?' His father snapped at him, Sherlock smelt the usual mixture of strong whiskey and cheap beer. Lank, black greasy hair clung to his head. He looked like he hadn't washed for days, Sherlock's nose turned up at the stench of dried sweat.<p>

'No-where.' Sherlock replied sarcastically. He tried to get past him and to the relative safety of his room, but as he walked his father grabbed his arm, fat fingers squeezing tightly, he yanked the violin case out of his son's hand.

'What is this?' He furrowed his sweaty brows, opening out the case to reveal the violin tucked neatly inside. 'Where the hell did you get a violin from?'

'A friend.' There was no use trying to hide the panic from his voice.

'You stole this didn't you?'

'No!' Sherlock protested but it was no use. A quick hit to the gut and a swipe across the face and he was on the floor. Kicks and punches rained down on him, the words 'thieving bastard' shouted over again. Blood pooling in his mouth. Sherlock learnt long ago that the best thing to do was to just curl up in a ball and take it. His father was twice the size of him, sure he was taller, but he was slight, there was no way he could defend himself. So all he could do was screw his eyes shut and wait for it to all be over. His father was an expert now, knowing just how and where to hit.

'I'll show you what we do with thieves in this house.' Sherlock could just watch as his father picked up his violin, and smashed it against the wall with such force it broke in half, held together purely by the strings.

He felt strangely numb, as if the bit in his brain that enabled thought and feeling had shut off and gone home for the day. He just stared at the pieces of his broken violin in his lap. That was it, the only thing he had ever owned that meant anything to him, was gone. It would no longer make the sweet, beautiful sounds that he treasured so much. He didn't know what to do with it, he couldn't throw it in the bin, how undignified an end for something he had loved so much, in the end he slipped them into his desk drawer, knowing he never wished to look at them ever again.

Before his brain had time to properly catch up with his movement he was packing. He didn't know where he was going, how he was going to get there, or how long he would be gone. He just knew he had to leave. He couldn't stay, he had to get as far away from the drawer with his shattered violin. He opened the bag, throwing in some clothes, a few books, his toothbrush, toothpaste and a comb. Wrapping his coat tightly around himself and tying his scarf extra tight to deal with the cold, he flung his bag over his shoulder, crept silently down the stairs, and snuck out into the dark.

He checked his watch, nearly midnight. Far too late to check into the closest hotel, he wondered around aimlessly wondering where he was going to go, he had no friends or family to go to. The park was utterly deserted at this time of night, sitting on a bench opposite some children's play equipment, he decided to stay here for the night and decide what to do in the morning. He used his bag as a makeshift pillow and wrapped his arms around his legs in a desperate hope to stay warm. He cursed himself for not having gloves. The hard metal of the bench dug into his back, rusty swings moving in the breeze and a few owls calling out were the only sounds he heard. He felt the cold seep into his bones as he settled into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

><p>'Sherlock! Sherlock.' He woke up to someone shaking his arm, snapping open his eyes he found Mrs Hudson, her face the vision of pure worry.<p>

'What are you doing out here?'

'Ran away.'

She sighed, 'we'll you can't stay out here, your already frozen, come on I'm taking you home with me.'

Sherlock could never say no to Mrs Hudson, he knew that she would make him go home at the first available opportunity, but he was so cold, and the promise of warm tea and maybe some breakfast was too good to miss.

'I'm not going home.' He insisted.

'I'm sure we can work something out.' Mrs Hudson smiled affectionately, her eyes tinged with worry as she led the way home.

* * *

><p>Five days. Day one John was slightly worried, day two he was concerned and now on day five he was about ready to pull his hair out. Sherlock hadn't been at school in five whole days, he tried asking the admin staff, but he had not run in sick. He had really began to panic when Kate had informed him that he had not shown up at this violin lesson. There was no way Sherlock would have missed that.<p>

When the door opened John half thought he had got the wrong house. That was impossible of course, he had seen Sherlock walk into this front door so many times, but John was taken aback by the sight that greeted him. Sherlock's father was an imposing man, lanky, grease filled hair, the same shade of jet black as his son's, tall like Sherlock, but unlike Sherlock's greyhound like frame he was well built and stocky, he looked dirty and unkempt, the unmistakable smell of cheap booze filled John's nostrils. The house looked so dark inside, all the curtains drawn across the windows, old wallpaper peeling off the walls. A filthy carpet stained with what looked like old, dried vomit.

'Is Sherlock in?' John asked politely.

'No.' The man snapped.

'Do you know where he is?' John was really pushing his luck now.

'No, I ain't seen him for days.'

'Well, if you do could you tell him John Watson called round.'

'Alright.'

John left and felt the door slam behind him. So Sherlock hadn't been home for days. Or maybe he had and his father simply hadn't noticed him, that wouldn't surprise him. John couldn't blame Sherlock for wanting to be far, far away from that man.

Next stop was the lab John knew Sherlock had been helping out in, he walked into the room, taking in the whitewashed walls, and lab equipment, he noticed a young woman staring into a microscope. He coughed to try and get her attention.

'Yes.' She didn't look up from the microscope.

'I'm looking for Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. I was wondering if you had seen him recently.'

As soon as John mentioned Sherlock's name he could see interest in the woman peak. Tearing herself away from whatever it was she was studying, she turned to John, giving him his full attention and looked him up and down.

'And you are?'

'A friend.'

'Funny, he's never mentioned having any friends.' She ran her tongue over her glistening white teeth. 'What's your name.'

'John. John Watson.'

'And what are really?' her voice dropped several octaves. The tone husky and dark. When he was young his mates and dared him to ring up a sex phone line, her voice sounded remarkably similar.

'I told you.' John said calmly. 'I'm a friend.'

'Oh come on John don't be a bore.'

'I'm his biology teacher.' The woman smiled.

'Thought so.'

She walked over to him, till she was right in his face, and began toying with his collar. John felt his face flush and wondered how easy it would be to snap her neck in half.

'You know, ever since I was a girl, I've had this unique ability to know what people want.'

'And what do I want?' John glared. He looked at her name badge. Irene Adler.

The women giggled, 'I've seen you with him John, you may not know me but I know you. Sherlock talks about you non-stop, so I started watching you, seeing all the things you do together, I've seen the way you look at him when you think no one else is watching. You're a very naughty man aren't you John. John Watson.' John flinched as she mimicked his introduction. Adler continued 'Yes, a very naughty man, I've heard of being hot for teacher but I never heard of it being the other way round.'

'You know nothing.' He hissed.

'That's where your wrong, its curious isn't it, this little country of ours, a tiny little island in a very big ocean, full of people far too polite to say what they really want. Little people with their little lives, and you are just like everyone else. A little man trapped in a marriage because he is too much of a coward to claim what's his.'

'He isn't mine.'

'Oh we both know that isn't true, we both know Sherlock Holmes is yours. Tied up in a big bow with 'to John Watson' on the tag. If only you would admit how you feel, stop trying to deny it John, stop trying to deny that you want him, because if you don't take his virginity I most certainly will. If only you would admit how you truly felt.'

John grabbed Irene's wrist. 'How do you know how I feel.' he tried to keep his voice even but was failing miserably. How could she possibly know how he felt for Sherlock? It was impossible, he had only been in the room less the five minutes.

'You're eyes, window to the soul you know, their expression goes beyond a normal concerned teacher.' She sang. 'One look at you and I can tell you are hopelessly in love with him.'

Suddenly her eyes clouded over with sadness, she looked down a the ground 'It's nothing to be ashamed of John. I am too. And I'm afraid I haven't seen him since Sunday.'

'Did he tell you anything? Mention he was going somewhere or was going to see anyone?' John demanded, he had had enough of the woman and her games. She was playing him, just like Sherlock had played that violin.

She shook her head 'He was here all weekend like normal, as far as I know he went home Sunday evening like he always does.'

'Thank you.' John thanked her half heartedly.

John stormed out of the room. Desperate to get away from the woman and her piercing gaze. If his attraction to Sherlock was so evident he wondered who else could see it. Could Sarah? Would she look into his eyes one day and know he was in love with someone else? He shook his head trying to dispel the awful emotions that had swirled up from his meeting with Irene Adler.

Next stop, he decided to go to the library, and if Sherlock wasn't here then he really had run out of ideas. He hoped, prayed, that he would walk in and see Sherlock wrapped up in a book and that he will greet John as if nothing had happened. He strode into the library, looking around desperately hoping to see a mop of dark curls on top of a tall figure. But nothing.

'Excuse me.' He asked one of the librarians 'Have you seen Sherlock?'

'Who? Oh Sherlock Holmes! Yeah I saw him earlier, came in with Mrs Hudson, he's round at her place now, apparently she found him sleeping rough and has taken him in.'

John felt like he could cry with relief, knowing he was with Mrs Hudson, and therefore safe and sound.

'I need to see him, do you have her address?'

The librarian thought for a moment.

'Please.' John pleaded, before bringing out the big guns 'I'm his teacher and it's important.'

Luckily for him Mrs Hudson lived close to the library. A few minutes in his car and he there, he pulled up outside of a neat looking cottage, the garden was overflowing with flowers and the house had a rather impressive thatched roof. It was something out of a Constable painting John thought.

He knocked lightly on the door, so dainty and twee did the whole thing look he feared he would put his hand through the painted wood, if he did anything sharper.

'Hello dear.' Mrs Hudson pulled John into a hug. Squealing with delight, her fondness for the man as present as always.

'Mrs Hudson' John exclaimed greeting the older woman. 'Is Sherlock in?'

'Yes, he's reading a book right now, would you like to come in?'

'Of course' he walked into Mrs Hudson's home. It smelt strongly of Lavender, the interior was just what he expected. Warm shades on the walls, flowery wallpaper, items everywhere, furniture straight from a period drama, but it was so cosy that John felt immediately at home.

'Sherlock, Sherlock dear you have a visitor.' She led John into the living room where Sherlock was curled up on a soft, squishy sofa. A plate of biscuits on the table next to him, and a thick volume of 'English History Volume 6' in his lap.

John beamed at him 'I was getting worried about you. You haven't been at school all week.'

'Sherlock!' Mrs Hudson scolded 'You promised me.'

Sherlock folded his arms defiantly 'I'm not going back.' He protested.

'Oh yes you are young man.' John knew the smart money was on Mrs Hudson winning this argument, you never said no to Mrs Hudson.

'Would you like some tea John?' She smiled sweetly.

'oh yes please.'

He followed her into the kitchen and was soon sitting at a very old looking breakfast table, drinking tea out of a floral mug, complete with tiny saucer. They had left Sherlock in the sitting room with his book.

'How long have you known Sherlock?'

'Oh since he was a baby, he's always been coming into the library for hours on end, when he was a boy he only went home when his mum came to pick him up.' She sighed softly 'He hasn't been the same since she died.'

John felt like he had been struck dumb 'His mother's dead? I had no idea.'

'Oh yes, a few years back during that awful winter we had. She was driving her car, struck some ice and that was that. It's such a shame, she was a lovely women, we were good friends, she was the only one who could bring him out of his shell, when she died he closed in on himself even more, though not so much since you moved here. I'm so glad you two are friends it's so nice to see him smile.'

John wondered what Mrs Hudson would say if she knew just how deep this friendship had run.

He sat next to Sherlock, they passed the time watching crap on Mrs Hudson's ancient telly. John pretended to be annoyed when Sherlock spoiled the ending of a old Miss Marple episode. But in truth he was just so relieved to have Sherlock by his side once again, that he just couldn't stay mad.

He must have dozed off because when he awoke it was dark outside, rain was falling heavily against the window and there was a loud rumble of thunder followed by a bright flash. Mrs Hudson and Sherlock stood by a window peering outside.

'What's going on?' he asked.

'Storm' Sherlock replied. 'The radio said it will last all night, that was until the power went out.' John looked around and noticed the candles and torches lighting the room.

John nodded then joined them by the window, it looked like a minor hurricane had struck Bakerford, and the trees were swaying to and fro in the strong wind.

'Best be heading back.' John thought of Sarah, and how worried she would be.

He wrapped his coat around himself, pulling his hood over his head to try and shield himself from the rain, he ran to his car, fumbling with the key in the lock he finally got the door opened, the wind making shutting it almost impossible.

'Come on Come on.'

The car spluttered and choked, and then refused to start altogether. He tried a few more times before giving up and running back inside.

'What happened?'

'Car won't start.' He pulled out his phone to ring the breakdown people, only to be told there was no way they were coming out in this weather.

'Well then, there is nothing else for it. Do you have an umbrella?'

'John you can't go out in this!'

'Well how else am I going to get home?' John exclaimed 'Neither of you drive. Besides it's not that far.'

'Not that far! It's on the other side of town, I will not let you out in this weather, it's suicidal. You can stay here for the night. You can use the other spare bedroom.'

John quickly remembered what he had said about saying no to Mrs Hudson. Looks like he was staying put. He rang Sarah and told her what was going on. Then decided to settle in for the night. Mrs Hudson made them a tea of some sandwiches, a few packet of wotsits and some cake, and the three of them munched away quite contented.

After tea they played cards, and John amused himself by watching Mrs Hudson teach a very disgruntled Sherlock how to knit, they chatted and played charades (though how Mrs Hudson guessed Sherlock was doing 'a brief history of time' John would never know), and soon it was time for bed.

Luckily for John Mrs Hudson always had a spare toothbrush in her bathroom, he brushed his teeth and washed his face using some floral soap, he spotted Sherlock staring at him through the door.

'Can I help you?' He asked.

'No.' Sherlock answered before running back to his room, shutting the door so it rattled in its hinges.

'Night John.' Mrs Hudson handed him a mug of hot chocolate dressed in some fuzzy slippers and pyjamas.

'Night Mrs Hudson, night Sherlock.' He called through the door. No reply. He sank into the bed, the mattress so soft it almost swallowed him, and sipped on his hot chocolate that Mrs Hudson had made for him, flicking through an old spy novel he found. When he had finished he turned off the lamp and settled down to sleep.

When he awoke from the darkness, he found himself in a bright, white room, he was tied to a chair. He watched as Irene Adler fluttered over, her high heels making a clipping sound across the floor.

'Hello John. John Watson.' She smiled.

'What do you want. I know you're not real, I know I'm dreaming.'

'You know exactly why I'm here.'

'No, I really don't' John protested.

'Oh John stop being so boring! I'm here because you can't stop thinking about our conversation earlier, round and round you're head like a teddy bear, you can't stop thinking about how much you want him, and how it terrifies you to think he might have ran away to get away from you.'

'You're wrong.'

'Wrong? That's a funny thing to say to your subconscious.'

'I don't give a shit who the fuck you are, get out.' He started wriggling and pulling against the ropes that bound him. 'Get out! Get out! Get out!'

John's eyes snapped open, he was panting heavily, his heart beating out of his chest and a shimmer of sweat covered his exposed body, having kicked the sheet of the bed. He was mumbling to himself, trying desperately to get up out of bed, except something was stopping him, something or rather someone had wrapped their arms around him, whispering his name, asking if he was all right, running their fingers through his hair and over his cheek in a desperate attempt to get him to calm down.

'Sherlock.' John clutched the boy into a tight hug. Burying his head into Sherlock's soft curls.

'Are you all right?'

'I'm fine just a bad dream.' He held Sherlock in a tight embrace, refusing to let go, rocking the boy back and forth, their soft breathing the only sound to be heard in the silent room.

'Sherlock.' John said after a while.

'Yeah.'

'Why did you leave home?'

Sherlock sighed 'My dad, he broke my violin.'

'What?'

'He said I had stolen it, so he threw it against the wall and it broke.'

'I'm sorry.'

'It's fine.'

'I'll buy you a new one'

'Don't worry about it.'

John pulled away, cupping Sherlock's cheek. 'So you didn't run away because of me?' he asked, his voice sounding so timid, barely audible.

'No, why would I do that?' John shook his head.

'Sherlock.'

'Yeah.'

Oh god here goes. John screwed his eyes shut then opened them again. Sherlock's bright eyes staring back at him. His white skin glistening in the moonlight. God he was beautiful.

'When you were on the school roof, I thought you were going to jump, then when you ran away and I didn't know where you were, I've never felt worse in my whole entire life, I felt that it was all my fault, that I had hurt you. I couldn't bare it. Have you ever met someone, then realised that before you met them you were sleepwalking through life? And that this person brought you to life, nd being apart from them physically aches, because without them your nothing. Well that's how I feel about you.'

John leaned forward, covering Sherlock's lips with his own, eliciting a whimper of surprise followed by a moan. He pulled away again.

'Are you in love with me sir?'

'Yes Sherlock, yes I am. This thing between us, whatever it is, I'm so tired of fighting it. I just want to be happy, and you make me oh so very happy.'

Sherlock smiled, 'I think I've waited my entire life to hear you say those words.'

Their mouths moved together in perfect harmony. John knew exactly the right kind of pressure to use to elicit small groans of appreciation from Sherlock, and Sherlock was a quick learner himself, it may only have been his second proper kiss, but he knew just how to make John's head spin. Tongues sliding against each other, John held Sherlock's head in his hands keeping him in place. The kiss deepened, all the angst, the pent up aggression, the lust and love that had clouded over them the past few weeks went into that kiss. Sherlock sunk back into the mattress, bringing John on top of him. Sherlock nibbling slightly on John's bottom lip, then taking his top lip and giving it a gentle suck. John had never been kissed like this before, with such care and consideration, it was as if Sherlock was taking everything, every tiny scrap of information and filing it away in a folder marked 'how John likes to kiss.' Because everything he did seemed to be able to drive John wild.

Then Sherlock started to stiffen, he felt rigid and cold and was desperately trying to pull away from john. Not that John would let him, holding him tightly.

'Sherlock what's wrong?' John asked concerned over his younger lover. Sherlock continued squirming away, turning himself on his side trying to get away from John, burying his face in the pillow. John was getting really worried now, why was Sherlock trying to get away from him? The younger man was curling in on himself, tossing and turning desperately trying to get away. John got his answer when he held Sherlock still, something hard grazing his leg. John started to laugh, wondering how it was possible for one man to be so heart wrenchingly adorable.

'S'not funny.' Sherlock pouted.

'I know love, I know, but please don't get embarrassed over it. We were kissing, it happens, it's perfectly natural.'

Sherlock's cheeks were bright red, his hair sticking out at all ends as he leant into John's embrace. 'It's not fair. I can't control it. And it is embarrassing'

'No one can.' John smiled. 'But you shouldn't be ashamed. I'm flattered actually.'

'Really.'

'Yeah, you were getting hard because of me, very flattering.' He kissed Sherlock on the forehead.

'If no one can control it how come your not...you know...like that.' Sherlock flustered.

'Because I'm not seventeen, not that I haven't been achingly hard thinking of you in the past.' John let out a small chuckle at just how flustered Sherlock seemed to become at that comment.

'Right, I think it's time for bed. Can you stay with me? Just for tonight?' Sherlock nodded, scrambling to help John sort out the covers and snuggle into his side. His head resting on John's chest feeling the reassuring thud of his heartbeat.

They kissed a few times, lazily, without the frenzied heat of before but still with the same love and cherishment.

'We are gonna have to make sure Mrs Hudson doesn't see us like this.' Sherlock groaned in protest, hating how John's comment had burst the bubble they had been in for the past hour. John felt Sherlock simply snuggle in tighter. Showing John exactly what he thought of that comment.

'Only if you promise you will be here when I wake up, that you will stop fighting me. I couldn't handle being rejected by you again, it nearly killed me the first time.'

'I promise Sherlock. I promise.'

Sherlock slipped into a deep sleep, John knew he would soon follow. Lying here with the man he loved asleep in his arms, John felt like he could burst with happiness. He knew this was wrong, that he was married, that soon reality would hit them and he should never have started whatever this was in the first place. He was a grown adult, but he knew he was putty in Sherlock's open palm. And he loved him. Whether this was love, lust, infatuation or a deep seated obsession John didn't care. After all why couldn't he reach out and claim what he wanted? He loved Sherlock, would do anything for him. And for the first time in his life John had thrown caution to the wind, forgotten his duties and expectations, and followed his heart.

He ran his hand through Sherlock's hair, something he had wanted to do so long. All he needed was right here, lying sound asleep in his arms.

'You're all I need Sherlock.' He whispered. 'You're all I need.'


	10. Stretch Out and Wait

**Hands On Education.**

**Chapter Ten.**

**Stretch out and Wait. **

* * *

><p>Usually, most days in fact, John is dragged out of consciousness. He was awakened violently from the gentle peace of sleep by a raging torrent of beeps, the mental equivalent of being wacked round the head with a sledge hammer. His alarm clock would pass through him like a steam locomotive, hurling him into another day, it was most impolite, as if someone was dragging him from his bed kicking and screaming. This day though, this day was different. His eyelids fluttered gently opened, his brain given plenty of time to adjust to consciousness, he gave a small yawn and rubbed his eyes with the bottom of him palm, though he was no longer tired. He hadn't slept so soundly for months; it had been such a deep sleep that he felt refreshed and energised as he awoke.<p>

He closed his eyes again, allowing a few minutes to doze. Having the opportunity to doze, to feel the warmth and comfort of the bed they were in, was a treat for the working man. All woken by alarms, all wishing to stay in the glorious kingdom of bed when the misery of the working day awaited them. Trains, tubes, buses, roads, all full to the brim with the half awake workforce, clinging to coffee cups when they would much rather still be in their pyjamas. John loved this time of morning, everyone did, early enough to be before the dreaded alarm, late enough that having enough sleep wasn't an issue. It was a peace, a freedom, to lie back and relax. Man, women, school child, no one got up before they really, really had to, no one got up before the alarm. It was unheard of, it just wasn't done, ever.

In that mysterious, wonderful world between being asleep and fully awake, John noticed that something, or rather someone was clinging to him. Their body curled up beside him, arm covering his chest and a head snuggled between his neck and shoulder. John thought himself especially lucky that he had awoken in the arms of a lover. Of course it was a lover, who else would cling to him like an octopus?

He did not recognise the room he was in, the strange furnishings and unfamiliar wallpaper. It took him a few moments to realise the sharp lines of the hip bones digging into his side, and the long legs that where entwined with his, did not belong to his wife, or her soft curves. The feminine scent breathed into his lungs, was replaced by an altogether more masculine odour, and the bed was also far too small to be the one at home.

Something was tickling his nostril, he looked down to see a mop of dark curly hair, he grinned, the memories flooding back to him, the midnight confession of love, the soul baring conversation, oh god the kiss! He didn't regret it, if anything, waking up with Sherlock in his arms only made him feel stronger, more determined to have Sherlock. He smiled, his eyes adjusting to the unfamiliar room. He didn't regret anything, if anyone thought seeing him in the morning, cast in the cold light of day, would make him change his mind, they were wrong.

He watched Sherlock sleep for a few moments, the young man looked so peaceful, his cupid's bow seemed more prominent when his mouth was slightly open and his eyes were closed, he looked down to see the mass of limbs, not sure which belonged to him, Sherlock was silent except for the sound of his breathing, and the steady rise and fall of his chest. The small clock on the bedside table told him it was half six, he groaned, he wanted to stay like forever, perfectly entwined without a worry in the world. But no, life beckoned.

He felt his partner stir, Sherlock stretching out his heavy limbs and yawning. John planted a kiss to the side of his head, his nose buried into the mound of curls, and squeezed Sherlock tightly to his chest, running his hand up and down Sherlock's side.

'Wakey wakey sleepy head.' He cooed.

'Go away...comfy.' Sherlock groaned, his voice muffled by John. As an act of defiance he simply hung onto John more tightly, and nestled himself back into John's body. John gave a low chuckle. He dragged himself up and his student along with him, planting lazy kisses along his jawbone.

'Come on, Mrs Hudson can't see us like this.' Sherlock groaned, how could John mention the outside world at a time like this? His fantasy of waking up wrapped in John's arm had come to life, and now it was being brought to a halt far too soon. He rubbed an eyelid, pouting sternly which seemed to make John giggle, he was still clinging to John, his arms wrapped around his chest. He tried to relax, tried to enjoy these few moments of being John and Sherlock, before they went back to being Mr Watson and Sherlock Holmes.

John stared out towards the window, bright sunlight filling the room.

'It's the first day of spring today.' John grinned again. 'My favourite day of the year, means winters over and there is everything to look forward to.' He gave a small sigh.

Sherlock wanted to ask John if he still meant what he said last night, but was unsure how to, he had never been in this situation before and everything was so new. Awful thoughts had crept into his brain during the night, spreading though him like fire. What if, now it was morning, John wouldn't want him? What if he decided the whole thing was a mistake and reject him? To have John, then to lose him in only a few hours would be worse than anything else he could possibly imagine. To know what it was like to kiss John, to wake up wrapped around him, to have John say that he was in love with him, then to have it all taken away? He couldn't bear the thought. Like the poor man who didn't know he was poor till he was rich, he would rather have the whole thing never happen, then to be so cruelly snatched away. He would rather his heart didn't beat at all, then to know love and have it break.

John saw the worry in Sherlock, it was written all over his face. He smiled at his pupil, reached out a hand and cupped his jaw, before running his thumb along the impeccable cheekbone. Hoping this small act to work to dispel some of the anxiety he knew the young man must be feeling.

'I meant everything, don't think daylight and sleep has changed that. I love you, I loved you then and I love you now. It's going take a lot more to have me not want this.' Sherlock swallowed, then nodded and smiled, he wondered if John had read his thoughts.

Whatever train of thought he was on quickly ended when John kissed him, his mind went deliciously blank and suddenly he was filled with a sweet nothingness, his strong hands on his hips, fingers shorter and blunter then Sherlock's own long, thin digits, weather beaten, and oh so utterly fascinating. He felt sense of security that came whenever John kissed him, he wondered if everything could be solved by John's kisses, if every worry, every anxiety he felt, could simply be kissed away. Their tongues massaged each other, running alongside each other, till John took the upper hand and pushed his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock gave a small groan, the act so stirringly erotic, he loved John's tongue invading him, exploring, it made him feel dominated, causing his head to fill with want. John then drew his tongue back, and guided Sherlock's into his own. The gesture was so shockingly intimate that it made Sherlock feel light head. He was careful not to push in too far, he had overheard a girl complain to her friends one day of another boy doing that, causing her to choke, from her friends reaction it seemed this was defiantly not a good thing, but other than that he felt lost, having never kissed anyone else before, he had no practise or any experience in the matter, nothing else to go on but a base instinct. He had thought after their kiss in the snow, which he knew was sloppy, that he could quickly pick it up, have a perfect technique and be able to turn John into a puddle of goo, the same way John did to him. He copied, as best he could, what John did, but it seemed some things were not as easy to learn as the violin.

John pulled away, at first Sherlock thought maybe he had done something wrong, but then he saw John panting, murmuring 'Jesus Christ.' over and over again. A tell tale bulge in his trousers made Sherlock grin, maybe he had done something right after all.

In the distance the unmistakable sound of an alarm clock was heard and they both froze.

'Shit, Mrs Hudson.' John murmured hastily. 'Quick, go to your room, I'll see you at breakfast.'

Sherlock gave him a quick kiss on the forehead and was gone.

* * *

><p>John was smearing a thick layer of marmalade on his second slice of toast when he saw Sherlock finally emerge. His hair was more skewed them when he had left John's bedroom, rubbing his eyes sleepily he stretched and yawned.<p>

'Morning.' Sherlock grumbled.

'Morning.' John said nonchalantly, trying to suppress the urge to he had to grin at Sherlock like an idiot, the boy was clearing enjoying acting like he had just woken up, to present himself as the picture of innocence, and most defiantly hadn't spent the night curled round his biology teacher. He better get used to lying, John mused, and so did he. He wondered how good he was at it, he had never had to lie before, he had always been sickeningly honest his whole entire life. A strong moral compass and honesty was the John Watson he had known, before all this had started. If he was a bad liar he better get good, and fast.

Mrs Hudson ran around them like a mother hen, cooing over Sherlock and himself.

'What do you want for breakfast Sherlock?'

'Coffee.' He shrugged.

'Anything else?' She hinted unsubtly.

'No'

'Oh Sherlock.' She tutted in mild rebuke. 'You really must have something.'

Sherlock shook his head in defiance. Mrs Hudson sighed and went back into the kitchen to boil the kettle. While she was gone John managed to catch his eye.

'For me?' he mouthed, pushing the plate of toast and marmalade towards him, Sherlock scowled, but took a piece anyway and began to munch earnestly.

After breakfast John collected his things, he offered Sherlock a ride and the pair left together. He squeezed Sherlock's leg as he did up his seat belt before setting off.

'Probably best if I drop you off a few streets away, best not be seen arriving together.' They would arrive relatively early, at least early enough not to be caught in the crowds but John wanted to be careful.

Sherlock nodded. He doubted anyone would really notice if they came in together, they would see of course, but they would not observe, they would be quite safe, however he didn't want to upset John, if this was what he wanted, this is what they would do, besides it was hardly life or death if he had to walk an extra few minutes, so he kept quite.

'Listen, I probably should get straight home to Sarah after work, are you going to be alright getting back?' Typical John, Sherlock thought, so considerate despite the fact Mrs Hudson's home was easily in walking distance.

'I'll be fine.'

A long, but not awkward pause transpired, he found he didn't mind sitting in silence with John. Sometimes nothing needed to be said.

'When can I see you again?' he blurted out, completely unaware he had been holding the words inside.

'I don't know Sherlock, don't worry I'll think of something.' John smiled at him and Sherlock felt weak at the knees, truth shone out of John's eyes, his voice possessing a quiet determination.

'Promise?' he asked though he did not need to ask as he already knew the answer.

'Promise.' John answered anyway and gave a low chuckle.

A song cam on the radio, one that John began to sing along to quietly.

'What's this? I don't recognise it.' A man's mournful singing filled the car. John rolled his eyes.

'Jesus Christ what are they teaching you in school? It's The Smiths, I worshiped them when I was your age.'

They didn't say another word till John pulled up.

'I meant it Sherlock, I'll see you soon okay, have a good day at school.' John wanted to lean over and kiss Sherlock goodbye, but that was perhaps unwise. He settled for giving Sherlock's hand a firm squeeze.

Sherlock climbed out the car, he watched intently as John drove off, then walked the short distance to school.

He tried to slip into the shadows once again, tried to be the ghost he had always been. But once he walked he couldn't help but break into a grin wider than the Cheshire cat. He didn't walk, so much as strut past the wrought Iron gates of St Bartholomew's. John Watson loved him, had snogged his face off, had spent the night sleeping beside him. Every single one of the snivelling school pupils he passed would kill to do what he had just done. They had all rejected him, had cast him out as an outcast, a freak, a nobody, best to be left ignored, but now he had something they all wanted. He had John Watson. He was above them all, he walked with his head high in the air, nose to the sky, and his arms swinging from side to side. Two words, two small, one syllable words flooded his head. Fuck Yes.

'You look happy.' Molly commented at morning registration. 'Good night?'

'The very best.' Sherlock smirked.

He didn't see John till lunch time. He was in the school canteen eating a sandwich Mrs Hudson had given him, when he saw the blonde man approach him. His heart skipped a few beats as it usually did when John was in close proximity, he heard a few whispers and giggles, a chorus of sounds that always followed John around St Bartholomew's. This morning he noticed a new piece of graffiti in the boy's loos 'I'd go gay for Mr Watson's biology.' He so desperately wanted to yell at the top of his voice, to everyone around him, that John Watson was his. That the strange boy everyone had called a 'freak' and a 'psycho' had made the one man that was universally adored, fall in love with him, but he kept quiet.

'Hi Sherlock.' John smiled, holding a similar lunchbox to the one Mrs Hudson had given him. Sherlock tried to keep his expression even.

'Watson!' A teacher cried out across the room, pointing at a chair beside him at the teachers table.

'Just a second.' John cried back.

He sat down next to Sherlock. 'Was just wondering how the assignment is getting on?'

'Fine.'

Underneath the table John felt a hand squeeze his knee, he suddenly felt his cheeks flush, he dove his hands underneath his table, desperate for any kind of contact.

'I have a few journal articles, there a bit old but could be useful.'

Something was being placed in his hands, light and square, envelope.

'That would be great.'

John's thumb grazing over his knuckles.

'Good, come see me after school and I'll give them to you.'

'Thanks.'

'See you soon.'

He clutched the envelope tightly, before slipping it into his coat pocket.

'Bye.'

'Bye.'

He finished his sandwich, his eyes kept wondering to the back of John's head but his teacher did not look back.

He ran to the loos in the school library, locking himself inside a cubical. The only place he could think of that guaranteed privacy. Pulling down the lid he sat on the toilet and tore open the letter. His heart thumping in his chest, he couldn't concentrate and it took a few minutes to settle his breathing down enough to read the words, handwritten in John's own hand.

_Dear Sherlock._

_God this feels weird, to be writing you a letter like some thirteen year old girl, or the heroine in a Victorian romance novel. Anyway this was the only way I could think of doing this without anyone overhearing. Not that writing a letter is any better, if anyone found this, or it got into the wrong hands. I don't want to think what would happen if anyone found out about us. I could lose everything, my job, my wife, my home. You can't tell anyone else, and we are going to have to be really careful. But whatever happens, please remember I love you. I would do anything for you. I am nothing without you. Before I met you, before I fell for you I was nothing, I was a shell, living in a darkness, I was alive but I wasn't living. I was just killing time. Then you came along and you turned on the light, you shook up my life and changed everything._

_I can't stop thinking about you, I think about you every second, every minute of every day. I keep thinking about that mouth of yours. It's beautiful, just like the rest of you. The cupids bow, I love kissing it. I want to kiss you everywhere, hands, neck, feet, head, the soft skin on the inside of your thighs, that smooth piece of skin behind your ear, everywhere. You feel so good underneath my fingers, I have to see you naked, if I don't see the expanse of milk bottle white skin you have I may combust. Are you a virgin Sherlock? In my dreams you are, in my dreams you have known no other touch but mine. I can give you bliss Sherlock, we can give each other such bliss. _

_Remember I love you, I want you like I have wanted nothing else in my entire life. There is nothing else in this world I am more certain of then this._

_I am yours. Always._

_J_

Sherlock read the worlds written so carefully down on the paper. He read then again and again till he could read it with his eyes closed.

Every doubt he had seemed to be washed away, a few words on a paper and suddenly everything was so lucid. It was so clear he could almost see his reflection through it. He could build his life on the surety of it all. Him and John. John and him, it was meant to be. It was love, he didn't care if some thought it immoral, or wrong. He had wanted John so badly for so long that he had almost not believed it when he happened. Now he had this paper, as a tangible, physical proof.

* * *

><p>The seconds past agonisingly slow, every minute seemed to last a lifetime, he kept staring at the clock over and over again yet no time seemed to pass at all, he waited and waited until finally, after what felt like an eternity the final bell rang, signalling the end of another school day. He waited outside till the crowds had dispersed and he could be sure that they would be alone. When he was the only one around he ran across the corridor to John's room, knocking on the door as hard as he could.<p>

'Come in.'

Sherlock opened the door, the room was empty and John was at his desk marking some books.

'Hello Sherlock.' He beamed at him. Sherlock giggled softly to himself. God how does one look from John make him loose all control of himself?

'I'm here for the journal articles, the one's you told me about at lunch.'

'Oh really.' John gave a low chuckle. He leapt from his desk, running over and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, pulling him inside, and slamming the door shut. He grabbed Sherlock by both shoulders, pushing him against the door and crushing their lips together, bodies flushed against the other. Hands roaming everywhere.

Sherlock gave a low groan, he wrapped his arms around John's waist. Pulling him tightly against him, trying to get more of him, more friction, more tongue, more taste, more _John._ Tongues tangled together in an intricate dance.

Minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, past, Sherlock had lost count and John pulled away, he ran a line of kisses along Sherlock's jaw and down his neck.

'God I've waited for this all day.'

Sherlock grinned, turning in neck to the side to allow John more access, a small nip of his earlobe. A low moan.

'I 'am.' Sherlock groaned.

'Sorry?'

'I 'am. In your letter, you asked me if I was a virgin, I am. You are my first kiss, my first touch, everything'

'Christ Sherlock.' John moaned.

'Will you be my first?' he whispered into John's ear seductively.

'Abso-fucking-lutely.'

Sherlock grinned.

'Whatever you want, take it, it's yours.' He said, his baritone voice dark and husky. It drove John wild with desire.

John pulled away, he cupped Sherlock's cheek, a cloud of seriousness enveloped him. He looked into Sherlock's mysterious eyes, he looked so much like a newborn foal, so unsure on his feet, awkward, his eyes bright and filled with a strange new world he had just stumbled upon, a world he didn't quite understand.

'We're going take things slow' John insisted. 'I know what I said in the letter, it's all true, I do want you, so badly, but I want to wait till you are ready.'

Sherlock pouted and John laughed. 'You're not ready and we both know it.' He paused. 'Emily Dawson.' He murmured, looking down at the ground.

'Who' Sherlock asked, running a hand along John's outstretched arm.

'Emily Dawson, the girl I lost my virginity to, I was seventeen like you, Harry, my sister, got us drunk on cheap wine, a quick fumble, a few thrusts and it was all over. I don't want your first time to be like that, I want it to be memorable, I want it to be wonderful, I want to make love to you and for you to love every second.'

Sherlock nodded, trying to calm his natural impatience. He knew one day John would take him. And it would be glorious.

'Sarah is round her mum's again tomorrow night, want to come over mine?'

'Of course I want to.' Sherlock grinned enthusiastically.

'Good. Meet me here after school.' John glanced down at his watch. 'I better get going, Sarah is expecting me.' He felt Sherlock bristle and the mention of his wife's name.

'Please don't hate Sarah, none of this is her fault. If you are going to hate anyone over any of this then hate me.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I could never hate you, I'd rather die than hate you.' He spoke defiantly, the same way a man would rally his troops before leading them into battle. John gave a small smile, and pulled Sherlock in for another kiss.

* * *

><p>'I'm so glad you're home.' Sarah had pulled him into a bear hug as soon as he got home, and was currently squeezing the air out of his lungs. 'Dinner's in the oven.' He followed her into the kitchen where she opened a bottle of red and poured out two generous servings.<p>

'I was speaking to someone at the practise today, apparently Sherlock Holmes was staying at Mrs Hudson's to.'

'Yeah. So?' John felt like he was immediately on the defence.

'I'm just saying, don't you find him a little...odd.'

'No.' John snapped. Something inside of him was twisting, constricting, being pulled back like an arrow ready to fire. 'You know nothing about him.' He hissed.

A flash of fear in her eyes, but Sarah stood her ground. 'The lady said you had become friends.'

'Yes, what are you getting at?' He checked himself, blood cold, heart rate elevated.

'I know you John, I know what you like, and it's about time you realised not everyone can be saved. Some people are just beyond help.'

John brought the glass to his mouth, throwing the liquid down his throat. 'I can save him.' He said, whether it was to Sarah or himself he was not entirely sure.

Sarah sighed in defeat, then went back to checking on dinner.

* * *

><p>Sherlock almost skipped back to Mrs Hudson's. He felt light and buoyant, euphoria ran though his veins, he felt like he could climb mountains and scale ocean's, he felt that there was nothing he couldn't do. He wondered when was the last time he had felt this happy, sure it was before his mother had died, but when exactly. He tried to pin point the moment, then gave up. He whistled as he walked, that's right, whistled. The soon to be great Sherlock Holmes was whistling. And all over a unassuming biology teacher with a love of woolly jumpers. John wasn't unassuming though, he may look it, but he really wasn't. Looks could be so deceptive, underneath the ridiculous jumpers and normalcy lay the John Watson he knew. Who was solid, strong, brave, dependable, Who was endlessly fascinating and was so not boring, who was about as far away from boring as it was possible to be. He replayed the kiss they had shared in the classroom, which had been over far too quickly, and the brief conversation. He didn't know why John wanted to wait, Sherlock's virginity felt like a weight, like an dead albatross hanging around his neck and he wanted rid, he wanted rid a quickly as he could, but John wanted to wait. It was so like John to wait, kind noble John. Maybe John was right, maybe it was the right thing, out of the two of them John was the only one that had even had sex, so maybe Sherlock should trust his judgement. It would happen eventually though, John had said he would be Sherlock's first. He would be his last to, Sherlock didn't think anyone could excite him the way John could, there would be no one else allowed inside of him, only one person and that would be John. And he would wait an eternity.<p>

He couldn't keep the happiness from his face. Smiling all the way home, grinning like a fool. His head filled with John. John, John, John, John, John. His John.

He had to make sure to call him Mr Watson when he was around others. What they had, it was all built on a flimsy pack of cards, one slip an it would come crashing down. He couldn't lose John. They were going to have to be so very, very careful, every track covered, every word silenced, every touch, every look, carefully planned and utterly secret. He thought of all the ways they could have been caught so far, what if Mrs Hudson had walked in on them? What if someone had seen them in the snow? What if someone had read the letter? They needed to shape up. One wrong move and it would be game over. He realised his world would now be dominated by secrets and lies, backtracking and foreword planning, every impulse squashed, every move carefully choreographed.

John and him, it was as if they were playing an elaborate chess match against the world, and they always had to be a couple of moves ahead. He was ready for it though, John Watson was his, and he was going to put up a bloody good fight to keep him. He was already an accomplished liar, an actor easily slipping into a new role. Hiding an affair, pah, he had caught a killer, this would be child's play. He thought of Sarah, he didn't feel bad, no way could she love John the way he did. She couldn't love John, if she did she wouldn't have prized him away from London, and brought him here. She just wanted a husband to fit the picture perfect suburban life that she desired. She didn't need John the way he did. He was John's soul mate, she was only his wife. Maybe they could run away to London together? Leave all this behind. The school couldn't teach him anything more then he already knew, he didn't need to be here, he was trapped, just like John, and John was so unhappy.

The fantasies continued to fill his head, every thought was centred on John, and it was making him delirious, the sky seemed brighter somehow, the streets vibrant, he was excited, perhaps for the first time ever, over what was to become. His future was now so very bright indeed.

He had been so unhappy, and now a new, alien feeling was flooding his system making him so blissfully happy, locked away in his own little world, but the daydream soon ended when he walked through Mrs Hudson's front door and into the sitting room.

His father was there, sitting across the sofa from Mrs Hudson, he was big, not fat but tall and very broad, he seemed to take up every available space, filled the empty air around him with ease. Mrs Hudson was clearly intimidated by him, scared almost. He didn't blame her, everyone was.

'I've come to take you home.' He spoke gruffly. 'Go pack your things.'

'Do as your father says Sherlock.' Of course she didn't know the real truth, she didn't know the pain and hurt his father caused him. No one did, and no one ever would if Sherlock had his way.

He didn't fight, he accepted his fate. There was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do. Mrs Hudson, Bakerford, they all saw a grieving man, they pitied him, pitied his decent into alcoholism, his dead wife and strange, unruly sons, only Sherlock knew the true monster that lay beneath. He gathered his things then quickly walked into the room he and John had shared the previous night, the bed made neatly, all evidence of John gone. The sheets were cold, he smelt the pillow, a faint scent still lingered.

Sherlock was driven back in silence, it wasn't until they were through the front door, till he had taken off his coat, bag put down, scarf hung up, then his father struck, his mothers riding crop this time, an old friend, he hadn't seen it in a while, the belt looked on mournfully, wishing it could join in the fun. The riding crop struck in quick succession, careful movements, avoid the face and lower arms, concentrate on the chest and legs. Bruises easily covered. Sherlock zoned out, fighting through the pain till he was in the dark recesses of his mind. He was with John, lying in a bed, in one of Mrs Hudson's spare rooms. Held tightly to his chest. Yes this would do, the scent, his smell, the comfort, the love. Stay here, he would stay here.

When it was all over he went to his room. He unpacked the letter John had written him from his school bag. Carefully placing it alongside a photo of his mother and the paper aeroplane. Before lying down on his bed, tomorrow he would be at Johns. They would talk and laugh and kiss, and maybe, if he was very lucky they would make plans. Tomorrow, he lived for tomorrow. He had to see tomorrow.


	11. Hands Open

**105? 105 reviews are you friggin kidding me? For this? I still can't believe it. *shakes head* honestly thank you all so much for everything, all the PM's, all the reviews/alerts/ect. It's like we have become a little family, but with porn, and in that case using the family analogy is slightly creepy.**

**These characters are not mine, though since the restraining order hasn't gone through yet I am going to claim Cumberbatch as my own. **

**Right enough of my ramblings, lets get on with things, as always please let me know what you think. **

**Love you all lots and lots, like jelly tots. **

**MB**

**XXXXXXXXX**

* * *

><p><strong>Hands On Education.<strong>

**Chapter Eleven**

**Hands Open**

'Christ you're light.'

As soon as the bell had gone to signal the end of school, Sherlock was racing through the corridors like a bullet straight out of a gun. The path he took was so familiar he could get there with his eyes shut. The well worn path, the familiar feel of the tread as his feet moved over the floor. All day he had been agitated, jumpy, he couldn't sit still or relax. He just kept fidgeting in his seat, staring at the clock wishing for the hours and minutes to pass by. He bit his nails, he drummed his fingers on the worn school desks, he did just about every nervous gesture there was, anticipation coiled in his guts and nerves ran through his system. Still time was not on his side, it passed so slowly, so very, very slowly. He hated time, there never seemed to be enough time in the world when he was with John, yet an eternity would pass when they were separated.

It didn't matter now, not anymore now he was back, now the moment had come, a wave of euphoria washed over him as he made his way to John's classroom. He knew not to go to the biology room straight away, he always left it a good ten or fifteen minutes after the school bell had gone before knocking on the wooden door and entering the room that held his love, he waited so that he could be sure there was no one else around, that everyone had left the school buildings and had headed home, and he and John could be left perfectly alone, they would usually wait again, staying inside long enough so they could be sure no one would see them leave together. This was the thing about having an affair Sherlock mused, there always seemed to be so much waiting involved.

He had flung himself in John's arms as soon as he heard the clunk of the door closing on its hinges behind him, surprising the shorter man, who gave a gasp of surprise and then laughed, picking his younger lover up and spun him round in a circle good naturedly before putting him down on the ground, hands began roaming inside his school blazer, a finger brushed against his nipple making Sherlock gasp.

'I'm not light.' Sherlock pouted at John's joking criticism.

John chuckled; he always did when Sherlock stuck his bottom lip out in distain at his older lovers comments. Sherlock could be very prissy at times, almost to the point of being highly strung yet John could not help but find it adorable. There seemed to be no part of Sherlock that he didn't take into his heart. With all his other lovers he accepted the flaws, the faults, yet with Sherlock everything was so pristine, every aspect of him entirely perfect. He was flawed yes, he was a highly complex character, certainly not a simple, cookie cutter hero, but his flaws were what attracted John in the first place. It was what made him special.

'Yes you are, you're all skin and bone. I need to fatten you up.' John joked, lightly poking Sherlock in the ribs as he made fun of Sherlock's slim build.

Sherlock loved how John's eyes would sparkle whenever he was in a good mood, or whenever he was smiling, Sherlock loved the broad grin that had taken over John's boyishly handsome face when he made fun of him, he guessed, by John's good mood he had five seconds. Maybe six if he was lucky. He wrapped a hand round John's cheek to hold him in place and pushed his lips onto John's. The initial spark of contact always thrilled him. The tiny speck in time when their lips would meet, his brain was flooded with the new, familiar sensation, and his mouth moved quickly, there was no hanging about at a time like this.

One. Two.

John's lips moving eagerly against him.

Three. Four.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, then following down the curve of him spine, down, to rest on the small of his back.

Five. Six. Times up. Dam.

John pulled away.

'Sherlock'. He said in a low tone as he chastised the younger man. Walking across the floor away from him, John remembering where he was, who he was with, what he was doing. Sherlock began mourning the loss of his touch.

He had hoped against hope that he had made John forget where he was, that his calculations were incorrect and John would want nothing more than to snog his face off, that he could have longer then the initial reaction, which he always enjoyed because he knew John would kiss him back, before John's rational brain kicked in, but no. John was insisting on being so ultra careful, which was just so boring, it was driving Sherlock mad. Walking across to his chair to pick up his jacket John shook his head, muttering to himself. 'Can't get carried away, someone could have seen us.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John, wishing his lover would be a little more reckless, they needed to get out of here.

'Can we go now?' He was eager to go to John's house as promised.

'Sure, just let me get my stuff together.' Sherlock's heart gave a leap. In front of his was a whole evening of John. Alone, wonderfully alone, he added to himself, with a strong emphasis on the 'alone' part. He was going round John's house, Sarah was away, no one to disturb them, and it was all so sickeningly perfect. He wished all evenings could be like this, he hated having to share John, always unsure when he could see John next. Sarah would always be the top priority. Bitch.

He watched intently as John packed his bag, finding something endlessly about how John carefully packed his things. Though he found everything John did endlessly fascinating, and he wasn't sure why. Maybe gawping at your lover doing inane and trivial things was just one of the side effects of love. Maybe that's what couples did? 'Making tea honey? Sure, now let me watch every move you make like you are a subject under a microscope.' He shook his head, he could live for a thousand years, and he didn't think he would ever understand why love was making him do the strangest things.

'Come on. Let's go.' John nodded his head to the door while putting on his jacket.

They walked in relative silence towards the exit, passed the empty classrooms, down the stairs, passed the school buildings, out past the school gates towards the car park. John's car was the only car left. Row upon row of deserted white boxes stretched out before them, the lines filling the grey concrete. Everyone else had gone home, apart from the few cleaners that were dotted about. John unlocked the door and Sherlock sat in the passenger seat. John sat by him in the driver's seat. Their arms so close that Sherlock could feel the texture of John's jacket against him.

'You really need a new car.' Sherlock remarked, when, for the thousandth time, it refused to start.

'You try buying a new car on my wage.' John snarked back. 'Besides, I didn't hear you complain when I had to stay round Mrs Hudson's that night'

Sherlock grinned at the memory that remark conjured up, he also revelled in the friendly banter between them. No one else seemed to want to engage him in conversation, so John wanting to have fun with him was a refreshing change.

'Do you think, if you had gone home that night that we would have got together?' Sherlock pondered. Looking out the window, he stared at the clouds that had formed overhead.

'I don't know Sherlock, though my will was already at breaking point, so I reckon so. Though I'm glad it happened in private, imagine if I had told you I was in love with you, and then kissed you in biology!' They both laughed at that. Finally the car started.

'What I told you that night, it was the truth, and the truth always comes out in the end, I couldn't have kept it in much longer. It was killing me.'

Sherlock nodded and then they drove off. Anticipation was growing in his chest as they drove through the streets of the quiet town, towards the shining beacon of John's house, his heartbeat quickened as the journey progressed, he was excited, but he couldn't help the spread of nerves through his system. He was out like a shot as soon as they arrived. He unfastened the seat belt and threw open the door as quickly as he could.

They strode up the garden path towards the front door, Sherlock fighting his urge to run up to the house, John unlocked the door and let Sherlock in. Sherlock felt so at home at John's place that he walked straight through to the living room.

Poppy ran up to him barking excitedly, he stroked her long fur and she ran round his legs.

'Poppy!' John yelled, honestly that dog seemed to be obsessed with Sherlock, whenever he was round she would act like a five year old who had just seen Father Christmas. 'Basket. Now' He snapped, the dog whined dejectedly before going back into the kitchen and lay in her bed.

Sherlock smiled. He kicked off his black converse (he got out of having to wear the standard issue black school shoes after the headmistress of the school told him that, after the fiftieth time in her office and a deduction about her prescription abuse issues, she didn't give two hoots what he did, as long as she never saw him again.) Taking off his blazer and tie and balancing them over the armrest, he rolled the sleeves of his school shirt up over his elbows.

'Making yourself at home are we?' John came up behind him and pulled the younger man into him arms, wrapping around him and squeezing him in a tight embrace. John just couldn't hold it in any longer so he cupped Sherlock's cheek and drove their lips together. He felt relief at finally being able to kiss Sherlock, to feel him against his lips, right up to the point Sherlock began kissing him back, then it all went to hell in a hand basket, Sherlock was getting really, really good at kissing, and seemed to know exactly what to do to drive John insane. Heck, all he seemed to need to do was stand there and John would feel his skin prick with excitement, his mouth to go dry and for all coherent thought to leave him completely. Their mouths moving together in such a way, that it was as if they were the same being, no awkwardness or fumbling, it was so fluid and graceful. Although, was graceful the right word to use to describe it? Well, John shrugged, if it was possible for any human being to be able to kiss 'gracefully' then that person would most certainly be Sherlock fucking Holmes.

Their tongues were dancing together, exploring and running alongside each other in the way John loved. He loved it all, the sticky sweetness of the act, he loved breathing in Sherlock's scent, having it envelop him in a cloud of love, he loved breathing it in deep down into his lungs. He loved the slight rub of stubble of his cheek, and the way Sherlock tasted on his lips. John took the upper hand, and pushed Sherlock backwards until they landed in a heap on the sofa, Sherlock pushing his body up to the edge so he was lying flat, and John lay on top of him, slightly to the side of Sherlock, so he could dominate Sherlock in the way he knew Sherlock loved, but he could put all his weight on one side so as not to crush the younger man. He slotted his other leg inside Sherlock's so their hips could slot into place against each other. Sherlock ran his fingers through John's soft hair.

Their kissing went from sweet to desperate in no time at all, Sherlock had noticed the way John kissed him had changed, and that it always did if they kissed for an extended period of time, it had started off so careful, chaste, sweet as always, John acting as if Sherlock was made of glass and would break if he was too rough with him, the kiss was familiar and loving, but then, suddenly something crackled in the air, a new energy filled them both, and now John seemed to be driven by something else entirely, it was hot and desperate, tongues clashing, hands become possessive and forceful, low moans erupted from both of them, Sherlock couldn't help but need more. He needed something, kissing no longer satisfying him, it seemed the longer they kissed, the more the kissing would just not be enough, it only caused him to be driven onwards towards alien territory. His mouth never leaving Johns he slipped his hands underneath John's shirt, feeling his hips and the skin of his back. John felt wonderful, so soft and strong. He felt soft hair and smooth skin, warm and so very alive. He pictured the blood, the cells, the muscles and bones that were underneath John's skin, all the life and biology that went into making up his love.

John left his mouth and began to pepper his jaw with sweet kisses, then down to Sherlock's neck. Finding the pulse point where he licked and sucked, Sherlock automatically turning his head, showing off his neck for John, the gesture signally to John that he loved this, it was almost like begging John to kiss him there. Sherlock knew John was fascinated by his neck, he always spent a good deal of time and attention on this particular part of him, as if he was worshipping it, he spent so long kissing, nipping, nuzzling at it, and Sherlock groaned in appreciation. His neck. It was only ever for John. It would always be only ever for John.

John pulled back up to Sherlock's face and their mouths were reunited, Sherlock following John's lead, if John wanted to be aggressive, then so would he, he kissed John with wanton abandon, his tongue and mouth becoming lewd and lustful, extracting such exquisite sounds from his older lover.

John pulled away 'If you keep kissing me like that then you are going to drive me totally crazy.' Sherlock smiled, John's hair was standing up on end from where Sherlock had touched it, his lips plump and red from being so thoroughly kissed, eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed.

'That's the plan.' Sherlock said, John chuckled and flipped him over, so now Sherlock was lying on top of him.

'I've been waiting for this all day.' John said, taking Sherlock's hand and running a finger over Sherlock's knuckles. Sherlock beamed, it seemed he wasn't the only one staring at clocks and praying for the school day to pass quickly.

They resumed kissing. Sherlock kissed John's neck, running his nose along the soft skin and nuzzling the crook between his shoulder and head.

Sherlock felt John take his shirt from the waist band of his trousers, the run his hands along his back, John's hands so warm and so very, very welcome on his skin. His skin seemed to dance with excitement wherever he was touched, making warmth pool in the lower part Sherlock's chest. His breath came out in short pants. John's hand found their way to Sherlock front, running his hands over Sherlock's nipples, making what felt like a shot of electricity run through him. Then John ran his hands down over his belly button and around over his hips. Sherlock rested himself on John's chest, enjoying the feeling of John's hands. He kissed John casually, humming gently in contentment.

Sherlock bit is bottom lip coyly when John reached down and felt his backside. No one had ever felt his bum before, it was entirely new to him, never before and he felt someone squeeze his cheeks or run their hands over the crack of his arse. Though he didn't pull away, he found that John squeezing and caressing the pert flesh only made the warmth in himself bigger. As soon as John's hand had touched him there it felt as if something had flooded his system, and it felt good, very good indeed.

John groaned, he had dreamt of touching Sherlock's arse for so long, and now he was doing it. He was entranced by it, the bottom filled with wonder and delight, and also made him heavily jealous of that part of Sherlock's body. Honestly how could someone so thin have such an enormous rear? Touching it was every bit as good as he imagined, it was so soft and supple under his fingertips. The flesh was responding eagerly to his touch. Not flabby at all, it was so pert. He badly wanted to fuck that arse, he was immediately reminded of his dream involving that very thing and it went straight to his cock. Though he knew the reality would be oh so much better.

They lay on the sofa for most of the afternoon, just chatting casually, the conversation coming easily to both of them in the way it always did. If they were not talking they were kissing. Sherlock began to feel very confused at the way his body was reacting to John's, it was like having an out of body experience, every time they would kiss Sherlock would feel a haze descend upon himself, something in his mind, which he had no control over whatsoever, would tell the rest of his body to go forward, no holding back, to drive completely to the edge. Whenever they kissed he felt this haze, along with the blank mind and the familiar warmth in his belly. He had no control, he couldn't stop, unless John pulled away, or he had to breathe he wouldn't stop, he also savoured John's touch, before responding almost aggressively, as if he was trying to devour John with his hands. He also found that he didn't care, that he was quite happy to let this new Sherlock take over, that it was all fiercely addictive. These new sensations he was feeling, he didn't want to let go.

It had to stop, John knew it had to stop, he had to stay in control of himself, he had made a promise to himself that Sherlock was going to come first, not only because was he a virgin, he was also totally unused to being touched, and because of this John would be gentle, patient, he was so happy to wait, but currently Sherlock was driving him totally crazy, kissing him like mad, hands exploring, any moment now John would lose it and take Sherlock up to his bedroom and it would be goodnight Vienna.

He pulled away, moving his head away from Sherlock and panting heavily, he felt his cock, tight and heavy inside his trousers. A thousand fanaticises hit him at once but he had to stop. He ran his hand through Sherlock hair in a way that John knew always calmed him down, he began to make small strokes and hum a gentle tune. Sherlock lay back onto his chest, eyes firmly shut, his breathing slowing down. Sherlock didn't move for a long time. Just savouring the feelings that were running through his veins, he felt the haze lift and the tightness in his chest evaporate, he felt calm again, he felt himself again. What was left was a type of happiness he had rarely felt before, lying on top of John, John's strong weather beaten hands running through his curls, lavishing his attention and focus on him, he hummed in delight, a low sound so it came out almost like a purr, he felt very much like a pampered housecat.

They dozed lazily for a while before John declared he was hungry, Sherlock's stomach growled in agreement.

'Fancy a Chinese?'

'Sure.'

John handed him a menu and Sherlock dug out his wallet from his schoolbag.

'Piss off Sherlock I'm going to fucking pay.' Was John's ever so polite refusal of his money. They ended up choosing a set menu for two.

The food arrived half an hour later. The poor delivery man given rather harsh looks by the pair as he interrupted a perfectly pleasant snogging session. They ate the food greedily on the sofa, John liking the informality of not having to eat in the dining room, something Sarah always insisted, boxes, plates and cutlery littered the coffee table. When they had finished eating Sherlock opened John's fortune cookie.

'You will fall in love with Sherlock Holmes.' He lied.

John laughed and flung a bit of egg fried rice at the younger man. 'Dork.' He giggled.

Far too soon, it was time to drive Sherlock home. They got into the car solemnly, Sherlock looking back at John's house as they drove off. The sadness he felt whenever they said goodbye to Sherlock reappeared, he kept his eyes on the road, Sherlock staring out the window. Neither one looked at the other. John knew if he glanced in the grey eyes he would break.

'See you soon Sherlock. I promise' never goodbye, so far he had never said goodbye to Sherlock, always leaving with a promise of meeting again. Sherlock knew it was a flimsy promise, but it was a promise none the less, and a promise from John Watson meant an awful lot. Sherlock leant over and gently kissed John, before leaving his car.

Lying in his bed at night he looked back over the day, it had been so perfect, yet he couldn't help but wonder at what had happened. He thought about the haze that clouded his brain, how his body took over his mind and took more and more from John, without Sherlock even thinking. He remembered the warmth, the tightness in his belly, the pounding in his chest.

He smiled, of course, it was so simple! He had been, using the colloquial expression, 'turned on.' He had crushed on John, had loved him, but never had he been so turned on by being with him. He had felt the individual elements, and he knew what lust felt like, but never before had it been so strong. That feeling people describe, the one that drives them to have sex right there and then, a force overtaking them. That's what he had felt. He laughed at his own naivety. He had not realised he was so coy. So unprepared and inexperienced that he hadn't even recognised when he was turned on, but he would know from now on.

* * *

><p>John whistled to himself as he cleaned up. Sarah strode through the door and he tried to make himself look as innocent as possible. He had brushed his hair, and enough time had passed for the flush to go from his cheeks. He also made sure Sherlock had not left anything behind.<p>

Sarah wrapped her arms round his waist as he did the dishes. He flinched, but then tried to relax into her touch so it wasn't obvious he was finding it uncomfortable. He no longer liked being close to Sarah, he felt like it was a betrayal to Sherlock, and her body no longer housed any appeal for him, the only body that could excite him anymore was Sherlock's. He smiled remembering how he felt against him.

'Takeaway?' Sarah asked blandly.

'Yeah.'

'You bought an awful lot for one person.' She asked quizzically, looking over all the plates and empty containers.

Shit, John panicked, trying to think of something quickly.

'Greg was round.'

'Oh.'

He breathed a sigh of relief, good one John, totally panic when your wife asks you something so simple, that's a great way to hide an affair! He kicked himself. Though Sarah seemed to buy his excuse he really did need to become a better liar.

He spent the rest of the evening marking homework, he watched some TV, took the dog for a walk, did some lesson plans, doing just about anything he could think of to kill time. Waiting till Sarah said she was going to bed, and then waited a bit longer, so he could be certain she would be asleep. He crawled into bed, lying as far away as he could from his wife sleeping form, and went to sleep. Sherlock Holmes filling his dreams as he always did.

The rest of the week Sherlock only saw John for snippets at a time at school. There was no opportunity to see him for any length of time, he was busy with Sarah, Sherlock always knew it would be like this, but he still hated it. He hated Sarah for taking up so much of John's time. He didn't understand why John just didn't get a divorce and why he was still trying to be a good husband. He was jealous, upset even, being apart from John was just painful. He sulked like a toddler who had his favourite toy taken away. He moped like a romantic heroine, waiting till he could be back with his love again.

On Monday morning, the start of the school week, Sherlock walked past the iron gates that marked the entrance to the school, he strode past a group of girls who looked strangely at him. Their eyes full of accusation and hatred. They pointed and began to talk in hushed whispers. Sherlock thought it was odd as normally no one paid him any attention at school. He was hated, no one trusted someone so smart, but he was generally ignored. He could go for weeks without been given a second glance by the majority of the schools populous.

He noticed everyone he passed doing the same thing, everywhere he went, looks, points, dark laughter. A churning sensation in his guts began to form, something was off but he didn't know what. What the fuck was going on?

'Alright freak.' Donovan sneered at him, Anderson stood next to her, an arm wrapped firmly around his waist.

'What do you want Donovan?' He hissed, if there was someone he never wanted to see first thing on a Monday morning. It was Sally Donovan.

'Just wanted to ask if the rumours were true?' She remarked, Anderson smirked beside her, his eyes filled with scorn.

'What rumours?' Sherlock snapped back.

'Boys bathroom.' Anderson replied nodding his head towards that direction ' It makes very interesting reading.' Both of them laughed then they walked off leaving a even more confused Sherlock behind.

Sherlock walked inside the boys bathroom, his heart in his mouth dreading what he was going to find. When he saw what Anderson was going on about, his stomach sank.

_Sherlock Holmes is gay._

The words written in neat, large letters, everywhere he could see the four words stared back at him, they were on every surface, on the walls, the mirrors, the cubicles, even the urinals. It was written in dark black marker pen, the words formed in a familiar hand. Moriarty. Jim Moriarty had struck again.

* * *

><p>He walked into his next lesson, Maths, again he heard giggling, people pointing. Someone threw something at him and he was pushed roughly.<p>

'Sherlock. Is it true you are a poof?' someone asked.

'Oi Queer!'

'Fag'

A chorus of insults were shouted at him. He felt his blood boil. He looked round at his classmates.

'Okay, listen up everyone because I'm only going to say this once.' His tone loud and firm, a sternness he had no idea his voice could project rippled through the air. He looked around, all eyes on him. Everyone looked at him as if he had grown a second head. 'Yes, I am gay.' He continued 'And you know what I couldn't give a shit. I don't care, so you can go around calling me fag, or queen because I just do not give a fuck.' As soon as the words left his lips there was open mouths, a strong, collected gasp from every student in the room.

Strong, sarcastic claps followed his statement. Jim Moriarty came strolling towards him.

'Well well well, look at the little boy trying to stand up for his deviancy.'

Sherlock got up, he strode over to where Moriarty was standing and pushed him, hard, so he stumbled backwards and collided with a desk.

'What's the problem Jim?. Jealous that you are far too ugly to be gay?' It was a low blow sure, but it was worth it. 'I reckon that you could spend your life going to every gay club in England and they would only throw you out. The only way you would ever get shagged is if you paid for it' He heard the rumblings of laughter from around the room. His eyes flickered, his heart pounded, an air of triumph all around him.

'Why now?' Sherlock whispered. 'You've know I'm gay for ages, why tell everyone now?'

Moriarty squinted his eyes in distain. 'You know what Sherlock, I was just going to leave it, homophobic bullying is so below me.' He shrugged, Sherlock snorted, nothing was below Moriarty. 'But then I've seen you around school.' Moriarty continued. 'Normally you just hide away, skulk about in the shadows where you belong, but recently, you've been strutting around school like you own the place. It was time you were put back in your place.'

At that point Mr Matthews came in. 'Sherlock, Jim, sit down.' He commanded, and started the lesson.

* * *

><p>'I just don't see why you have to make life so difficult for yourself.' John shrugged. News about what had happened in the lesson with Mr Matthews had quickly gotten round. They were having a packed lunch in their usual spot, on a desk in the far corner of the library, a hidden spot that only they seemed to know about.<p>

'I'm not going to apologise for who I am.' Sherlock replied defiantly. 'I don't care what they think. I'm not ashamed to be gay.'

John sighed. 'You shouldn't be. You know that.'

'Exactly.' Sherlock waved his arms around.

'Yeah, but you shouldn't have risen to the bait, you know Moriarty was just trying to get a rise out of you.' John continued.

Sherlock shook his head. 'He wanted to bring me down, everyone sees me as above them, he wanted to make me their equal, he wanted to see me fall. Now I have to deal with all the malicious gossip.'

'Tell me about it, I've given detention to about half the school already because of you.'

Sherlock grinned. 'Why Mr Watson, I do believe you are becoming quite protective of me.' He joked.

'You better believe it.' John smiled back, his hands went under the table and he gave Sherlock's knee a quick squeeze, it had become a failsafe gesture between them, something John always did when he wanted to show affection but they were in public, he then went back to eating his sandwich.

'It was pretty cool though.' He said through a mouthful of egg and cress.

Sherlock smiled. 'Really?'

John nodded vigorously. 'Telling everyone you were gay and didn't give a shit? Ultra cool. He obviously thought you were going to run away from it all, yet you had a total Braveheart moment.'

Sherlock furrowed his brows in confusion 'Braveheart?'

John rolled his eyes. He really needed to get Sherlock into pop culture. 'Film, I'll show you one day. Mel Gibson before everyone found out he hates Jews.' He shrugged by way of explanation. Something he did often when Sherlock was entirely baffled by something he found totally obvious.

John checked his watch. 'Right, better go, are you sure you are going to be okay?.'

Sherlock sighed. It was turning into such a long day, he tried to persevere with not giving a shit, but the amount of times he had homophobic insults thrown in his direction was wearing his patience thin. 'I told you, I'll be fine.' Sherlock lied. 'It's not like I've never been bullied before.'

John gave him a half hearted smile, he wished Sherlock would open up. This was a serious issue, he didn't want Sherlock to just brush it off, he was unsure whether or not the younger man had the emotional capacity to deal with it all.

'You know I'm always here for you, if you need me.' He said for what felt like the thousandth time.

'I know.'

John looked around, scanning the area for anyone, finding no one he quickly gave Sherlock a peck on the cheek, then grabbed his school bag and left. Sherlock stayed where he was, continuing to take small bites out of his lunch.

A few minutes later he felt a buzzing in his pocket.

_One Message received._

_Sarah's working the late shift at the clinic tonight. _

_Meet me in my room after school. JW._

Sherlock beamed, his day was suddenly looking up.


	12. Daisy

**Hello everyone We meet again :) I hope you enjoy this chapter. Its been a bit of a pain to write, but such is life.**

**For those of you who are not English like me, a Scone is a small cake type thing. (excellent description I know) made with flour, eggs and sugar, they are delicious, there like the English version of crack believe me. The best ones can be found in a place called The Orchard in Grantchester which a tiny place just outside Cambridge, they also do really good Lemonade. **

**Hope you enjoy this. **

**MB**

**xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

* * *

><p><strong>Hands On Education.<strong>

**Chapter Twelve. **

**Daisy.**

'Check and mate.' Sherlock grinned triumphantly. His nimble fingers sliding the knight into place opposite John's king, John groaned and ran a hand through his hair.

'Makes sense you would be good a chess.' John grumbled, they had played five matches so far on his grandfather's old chess set and he had lost every single one. The minutes they played each game had barely reached double figures before Sherlock came crashing down on him, he didn't stand a chance. John's grandfather had taught him how to play and he felt he was a worthy opponent, but Sherlock as usual outwitted him, it was inevitable he supposed, logic was one of his strongest points, and what is chess if not pure logic?

He looked over the chess board, then at the rows of white pieces that were still perfectly intact. His black ones lay in a large pile at Sherlock's elbow. He hadn't so much lost as be completely and utterly annihilated. The first few matches were fairly close as John was no amateur either, though he didn't get much of a chance to play these days since neither Sarah nor Greg knew how, though now he suspected Sherlock had been taking it easy on him and once the younger man got a taste for victory he let his talent shine.

'My dad taught me how to play.' Sherlock quipped 'He would spend hours teaching me all the different moves and which strategies to use. We used to play together a lot before...' Sherlock stopped mid sentence, John's ears pricked with interest hoping for him to continue, but he didn't. Sherlock sighed, picking up John's king and toying with it between his fingers. He began to stare at the small figurine that was sandwiched between his digits, turning it over carefully in his hand.

'Do you play together anymore?' John asked as he was keen to keep the conversation going.

Sherlock shook his head. 'It was a long time ago. A lot has happened since.' He said sadly. 'I miss it.' Sherlock continued. 'We used to do so much together.' His eyes disappeared to a forgotten place, one that John could not reach. A past John did not know enough about. He remembered how Sherlock's eyes had lit up when he saw the chess set, how he had looked when John suggested a match. The same expression he wore now, a man connecting with a forgotten past.

He sniffed quietly, looking up he met John's gaze and his young eyes were full of sadness. John reached out and cupped his cheek lightly and Sherlock locked his fingers through John's, kissing his open palm.

'It doesn't matter anymore, I have you now.' He smiled. John tried to smile back but felt the muscles in his face put on some kind of rebellion. He had tried many times to get Sherlock to open up about his life and his past, but every time was confronted with a large brick wall. Whenever he approached the subject, Sherlock would just shrug and quickly change the subject. Often he would just ignore John altogether, or try and distract him. Sometimes John felt he knew everything there was to know about the seventeen year old, and sometimes he felt like a complete stranger. It was all so infuriating.

He got up and began to pack the pieces away. Sherlock absentmindedly walked to the sofa, lying down in a particular way so that his limbs were outstretched, though he was far too tall for it, most of his legs were over the armrest. John joined him, lying next to the younger, his body locking into place with Sherlock, the sofa was far too small for the both of them and it was exceptionally cramped and slightly uncomfortable, though neither minded that much, Sherlock lay his head against John's chest, his head tucked under John's chin, the older man began toying with his dark, rolling the soft hair around his fingers. His mind whirred with curiosity over Sherlock's past, the need to know more.

'What was she like?' John murmured questioningly, his voice lowered due to the weight of a 6ft something seventeen year old on his chest.

'Who?' Sherlock looked up, his brows furrowed in confusion at John's rather unspecific question.

'Your mum, what was she like?' he asked tenderly.

'She's dead.' Sherlock said bluntly.

John rolled his eyes, 'I know, Mrs Hudson told me. I meant when she was alive.'

Sherlock tensed, John knew he was treading on very delicate ground but he needed to know, he was tired to the enigma surrounding his younger lover and he needed to show Sherlock that they could talk about anything.

'I don't want to talk about it.'

'Please Sherlock.' John pleaded, he felt a wall spring up, the same wall that greeted him each and every time he tried to get Sherlock to open up, he was pushing against it as hard as he could to get to the delicateness underneath.

'I don't know! I don't remember her. It feels like I forget more and more about her the more time passes.' Sherlock protested.

'Well what can you remember?' John kept his tone calm and neutral in an attempt to make this more of a conversation and less like an interrogation. He wanted Sherlock to want to open up, not to spew out memories because he felt backed into a corner.

Silence fell. Loud, deafening silence until John felt utterly defeated. He was about to give up when Sherlock began to whisper quietly.

'She smiled a lot. That's what I remember the most. She was always smiling and laughing, footloose and fancy free. That's how I remember her. She was always smiling at me, we would play games together, growing up she was always felt so close. She always seemed to be right next to me.'

John felt it unusual the carefree women Sherlock described would have given birth to someone as serious as Sherlock. Or maybe it wasn't unusual at all.

'What do you miss most about her?'

'I miss her love, I miss knowing that there is someone who gives a shit about me. When she died I felt like my link to the world had been severed, she was my moral compass, my guide, she was always taking me places, showing me the world, showing me how everything worked. Without her I felt so very alone, that is until you game along.' John smiled and gave a small kiss to the top of his head.

'A few years ago my dad got drunk and started ripping all her pictures of the walls, he said he couldn't take her staring back at him, he collected all the pictures he could find and then made a fire in the back garden. I managed to save one, kept it hidden in the draw of my desk. I look at it sometimes. Though not very often.'

Another pause, Sherlock felt that John had someone opened something in his brain, as if he had broken a dam and now it was all gushing out of him and he couldn't stop.

'I dream about her, I'm outside and she is calling to me, she needs my help but I can't find her. I remember when my dad came into my room and told me she was dead, he was sobbing so hard yet I felt so numb. I felt angry at myself, I hated that I couldn't save her, oh god why couldn't I save her?' Hot tears streaked down his cheeks and onto John's chest. He curled his hand into a tight fist. John took the fist, uncurled his hand and threaded his fingers through Sherlock's, making a deep soothing sound with his throat.

'I wasn't your fault.' John whispered. 'It was an accident.'

'It was my fault though.' He wiped a sleeve over his eyes as a makeshift handkerchief, oh god it was coming, his confession, he had held it in for so long and now he couldn't stop it from coming out, John was going to find out he was a murderer. The unspoken words he had held in for so long. John would hate him, he would hate him just as much as he hated himself. 'I was having a fight with my brother Mycroft, I was being a petulant child, she had to be somewhere but as usual I was the one demanding her attention, I was the reason she was running late, I was the reason she was speeding. I was the reason she died.' The guilt he had been feeling all these years suddenly pouring out of his every pore.

'No, No Sherlock you can't think like that. Please love, please don't think like that.' He held Sherlock closely to him, holding his lovers head in his hand. 'You need to stop hating yourself, you need to stop punishing yourself because it was not your fault.' John felt so angry. Sherlock was so young and so innocent. God knows how long he had been carrying this around with him? Weighing him down and causing him so much pain, a black mark against his life. 'Your mum wouldn't want you blaming yourself. She would want you to be happy.'

Sherlock looked up, gazing at John with glassy blue eyes. 'Then why can't I forgive myself?'

John searched for the answer but couldn't find one. He simply sighed 'Because that's what people do Sherlock. When someone dies suddenly they carry so much guilt around with them, they think about the last thing they said to them, the last thing they did, but eventually they forgive and forget.'

They went back to silence. John felt something bubbling under the surface, a guilt so similar to Sherlock's.

'My sisters an alcoholic.' He confessed. Sherlock sat upright. Startled at the turn this conversation was taking.

'Really?'

John nodded. 'Has been for a very long time, she's been drinking since she was a teenager. I spent years trying to help her, countless rehabs, expensive therapists, AA meetings the lot. I even flew home early from my honeymoon because she had got drunk and ended up in hospital, I don't think Sarah has ever forgiven me for that. I wanted to save her, I wanted to help her, like you I felt so guilty and angry at the helplessness I felt.'

'What changed? Clearly you have stopped trying to help her as you are using the past tense, but you said she was an alcoholic in the present so that means she has not recovered.'

John reached out a hand and cupped his cheek. 'I know my limits. I knew there was nothing more I could do, how could I save someone who didn't want saving in the first place? One day she will reach rock bottom and need me, and of course I will be there for her, but in the meantime I know I can go to bed at night knowing I have done all that I could possibly do.'

Sherlock nodded. 'But the guilt, how did you get rid of it?' He pleaded so desperate for someone to put a stop to all this pain.

John kissed him, a sweet loving kiss, then pulled away at looked directly into his eyes.

'Because I realised that life was for living.'

He pulled Sherlock into a tight hug. 'Let it go Sherlock, this guilt, eating you up from the inside out, let it go. You need to let it go.'

Sherlock sank into John's touch, revelling in it, the feel of the older man's chest against his. He buried his face in the crook of his neck and shoulder, his hands pulling John's jumper tightly.

'Please love. Let it go.'

* * *

><p>John stared at the window, the sun looking so bright and sunny. He longed to feel the warmth of the afternoon sun warming his skin. They could both do with escaping the stuffiness of the house after so much emotional upheaval.<p>

'How about we go for a walk, we could do with some fresh air.'

Sherlock nodded. 'That would be nice' he agreed enthusiastically, normally he didn't understand the point of 'going for a walk' honestly it was a massive waste of time, walking round and round only to end up exactly where you started. But right he felt suddenly extremely claustrophobic and confined, the walls of John's living room making him feel like he was in a cage. A walk to clear his head and stretch out his limbs, to breathe in fresh spring air, yes that was exactly what he needed.

They tied a lead round Poppy and set off, John leading the direction though not really having any real route in mind, the dog darting this way and that over the pavement. They walked out of Bakerford, over the grassy fields and hills that made up their own quiet corner of the English countryside. As soon as they had left the town Sherlock threaded his finger into John's and did not let go. Being away from Bakerford meant he could be with John in the way he wanted, they could hold hands and be affectionate, not worrying over who could see them. The relief of being amongst strangers who wouldn't know the immorality of their relationship. They could disappear in the crowds, come out from the shadows, cast away the secrets that bound them and become just another couple walking their dog. With their identities unknown and their faces blank and unrecognised no one would care, they could just be normal. Though Sherlock usually took offence to normal, finding it dull and uninteresting but he revelled in this normality, revelled in being allowed with John and enjoying the domesticity of it all.

They walked and walked, Poppy bounding at their feet, occasionally running off chasing a rabbit or following a particular scent. They walked to the small village of Weasels King Henry, where they stopped at a little tea room to have a coffee and rest, sitting down at a table outside in the shade. Poppy sat underneath Sherlock's chair, grateful for the rest, the spaniel occasionally giving a low growl to anyone she thought getting too close to the curly haired young man. John left them to go inside and order the drinks. He came back with two cappuccinos and two huge scones complete with butter and jam.

'That thing is bigger than my head.' Sherlock exclaimed making John laugh.

'Just eat it.' He pushed Mount Scone towards the younger man who proceeded to cut it in half, then pile butter and jam on it. He took a huge bite, it was delicious. He felt butter and jam role down his chin, John too his napkin and wiped it off.

They chatted and ate, just enjoying being out with each other in the warm air.

'You okay?' John asked when Sherlock was toying with the froth of his cappuccino, a distant expression on his face.

'Is it wrong that I feel good?'

John took a sip of his own coffee. 'In what way?'

'All this stuff I told you, about my mum, about the guilt, everything, I've bottled it up for so many years, internalised everything, then I told you all about it and it all seems to have evaporated into thin air.'

John shook his head 'I think it's normal, my old grandmother used to say that a problem shared is a problem halved, I think she was right. The guilt was ready to leave you, the anger, the bitterness, it was all ready to go, it was just waiting for you to say it all out loud.'

Sherlock beamed 'As soon as I said it I saw how stupid it all was.'

John nodded. 'It happens a lot, you think you have a massive problem, something you have no idea how to fix and something that threatens to swallow you whole, then you talk o someone about it and you realise it was never a problem in the first place.'

Sherlock agreed. 'When I was small I was in bed one night, lying in the dark I kept hearing this sound at my window, I thought there was someone trying to get into my room, I heard it knocking against the window pane over and over again, I was so frightened until I plucked up the courage to turn on my lamp, then I saw it was just the branches of a tree being knocked against the glass by the wind, I felt so relieved that I had nothing to be afraid of and that I was perfectly safe. Well talking to you was like was like flicking on that switch.'

John gave Sherlock's hand a gentle squeeze 'We only get one life Sherlock. We need to enjoy it, not spend our days atoning for the fact we are the ones that are left.' He brought Sherlock's hand to his mouth and began kissing the tips of his fingers.

'I love you.' Sherlock blurted out.

'I love you to.'

Again he felt the tightness in his chest as John said those three words back to him.

'Can Love solve everything?' He asked the older man.

'I reckon so, and anything it can't solve a cup of tea most certainly can.'

* * *

><p>They began to head back, the afternoon sun still beating down on them. Sherlock could not get over just how good John looked in sunshine, the sun's rays seemed to dance over his blonde hair and skin. It was warm enough that they were walking around in just jeans and shirts, no jackets or coats, a light breeze would occasionally come and cool them down when it got a little too hot, it was all rather lovely. Sherlock swung his arms from side to side causing John's hand to fly everywhere. A line of trees stood next to them. Daisies were scattering the ground at the base of their trunks. Sherlock felt odd at just how much he was enjoying himself, he thought after saying all those things to John that he would feel awful. That raking over such old and painful ground would leave him feeling like utter shit, but it hadn't. It was just like what John had said in the coffee shop, that sharing everything had been a load of his mind. He felt strangely light and carefree. An enormous weight had been lifted from his shoulders. All this baggage he had been carrying round with him all these years, it felt like it had all just disappeared. John was carrying him now, and he was strong enough to carry them both.<p>

John looked at the line of trees, the picturesque scene playing out in front of him. He saw the large patches of daisies that were amongst a sea of green grass. The blueness of the endless expanse of sky, walking with his boyfriend hand in hand made him feel fuzzy and content. Bakerford was fast approaching them, the lines of neat houses and the church spiral calling out to them.

John stopped suddenly, he looked around once again. He knew this place. He had been here before of that he was certain. He stopped dead in his tracks, staring around him once again. A thought came to him, a flicker of a memory that suddenly grew stronger and stronger. Was this really it? Could this really be the same place? He looked around again, taking in every detail of the scene, and then thought back, it matched perfectly with the memory in his head.

'John what is it?' Sherlock asked, wanting to know why they had stopped and what John had seen. For a moment he wondered if they had been seen by someone, but that was impossible, they were completely alone. He hadn't seen anyone for miles and miles.

'Wait there.' John let go of Sherlock's hand and ran to the lining of trees, running through them to the clearing on the opposite side. Yes, of course. This was it, this was exactly the same place as the memory his mind had conjured, he had been right. Joy flooded him and he let out a laugh.

'Sherlock! Sherlock!' He called out. Sherlock came running up to him.

'What is it?' he asked again, always hating to be left in the dark, wishing John would just spit it out. Whatever it was John was thinking he wanted to know.

'Don't you know where we are?' He flailed his arms in the air.

'No' Sherlock said simply.

He took Sherlock's hand, led him over the grass, just past the trees and to the clearing, he pulled the memories from his mind's eye. The trampled over the warm soil, Sherlock still feeling confused to what it was John was actually doing. His brain, for once, was entirely clueless. He didn't understand what was so important about this place, why had John insisted on stopping here? It was exactly like every other bit of field they had passed. Neat and tidy and incredibly generic, there was nothing unique or special about it, nothing at all. So then why was John acting like they had found the Promised Land?

'Just...about...here' He lead Sherlock to a spot on the ground.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow quizzically, still utterly confused at why John was so excited. Why the hell was he looking at this little patch of ground and smiling so broadly? The man was off his rocker. Bats in his belfry. John had quite clearly lost it.

'Okay, lie down.'

'Have you gone utterly mad?' Sherlock protested.

'Just do it.' John insisted. Sherlock just decided to go with it. He lay down on the grass, the warmth of the ground was quite unexpected, he squinted at the sun and blades of grass tickled his skin. John was lying down with him.

'Remember?'

Sherlock shook his head.

'Okay, what about if I do this?' Suddenly John took his mouth in his and began to kiss him vigorously. Sherlock gave a low groan and the familiar scent of John washed over him. The erotic sensations of wet tongue and hot mouth, exploring, enveloping, loving, John nibbling sweetly on his lower lip, then taking Sherlock's top lip and giving it a gentle suck. Too soon he pulled away. John's cheeks flushed pink, pupils blown wide and hair slightly ruffled.

'Remember now?' John raised an eyebrow waiting for Sherlock to figure it all out.

Sherlock looked around, and then back at John. Then back at trees, something came to him. His brain working through the puzzle at high speed. A small, tiny flicker of an idea, then the little glow of a not so distant memory. He sat up, bolt upright, so quickly it was as if he had touched fire, realisation flooded him, the uptake firmly held in his grasp, the answer to his questions finally found. He couldn't believe it, he couldn't believe that they were back here, that they had stumbled upon it quite unexpectedly. They hadn't been looking, but they had found it all the same. He bathed in nostalgia.

'Of course, of course!' Sherlock squealed with excitement. 'I didn't recognise it because there is no snow, but it is, this is really the place.' He threaded his arms round John's waist and hugged tightly. 'Our first kiss John. Our first kiss!' He felt slightly strange at being back to the place where all this had begun, that he was back at the start, but then again this was where he had first kissed John. He felt a wave of love and affection for the entire place.

John laughed and crushed his lips to Sherlock's, pushing down so he could lie flushed against him in the grass. Lips moving together, tongues dancing, moans exhaled by both men, so much had changed from when they were last up here. That messy, unpractised kiss had felt like a lifetime ago. John would not run away from him again, he would not regret this kiss. John was Sherlock's that much was certain.

John had never felt so happy, kissing Sherlock, feeling the warmth of the sun on his bare skin, his love for Sherlock radiating from his very core. Lying on top of him, Sherlock pulling at his clothes so John grounded into him, just like they had done all those months ago, it had been a different life back then, one filled with darkness and despair. This life had hope and love, the melting snow had revealed the beauty underneath.

The kissing grew more frantic, as it always did, tongues pushing into mouths, hands exploring, caressing, diving under tops, and along legs, running along smooth skin of backs, fronts, tummies, belly buttons, jeans, thighs and nipples. Sherlock gave an experimental tweak of John's left nipple and was rewarded by the most lust filled moan he had ever heard in his life.

Protected by the line of trees, the little clearing so secluded, no one would disturb them. He wanted to stay here exactly like this until the world ended. He pulled away, rolling of Sherlock and onto his back and the pair lay panting in the grass. John looked over, pulling a daisy from the ground, holding it up to the sun and twirling the flower in his hands.

I love you. I love you.

Sherlock felt the low buzzing sound of his phone, pulling the device out of his pocket he opened the text.

'Who is it?' John asked.

'Lestrade' Sherlock replied 'Needs my help with something apparently. He wants me to meet him at the police station immediately.'

John felt a sharp pang of disappointment, their time together once again had come to an end.

'Thank you very much Greg.' He grumbled to himself, the pair got up, dusting off their clothes and made their way back towards Bakerford.

'Did Lestrade say what he wanted?'

Sherlock shook his head 'Probably just wants me to look over some case file.'

They walked back to their own quiet town. A comfortable silence had fallen over them, John had never felt so in love or so connected to anyone else before then he did while walking with Sherlock across the fields towards home. He loved Sherlock, nothing would change that. Walking side by side he felt like he was finally complete, the darkness inside of him he had felt so acutely when he first came to Bakerford had gone. Nothing was left but a sense of contentment. A storm that had been replaced by a peaceful sky, he savoured the feeling that all he needed was here, standing right next to him. Nothing mattered, nothing at all. He thought of Sarah, could he really do this? Leave it all behind and be with Sherlock? He certainly loved the young man but could he really give everything up? Everything he had worked for? He was living in a dream and any minute now he would wake up. When he was with Sherlock it all felt so perfect, so right, then as soon as he was away from him reality would hit. He couldn't have both, he couldn't keep his life with Sarah and have Sherlock. Eventually he would have to choose. One day he would have give one of them up. Right now it was easy, right now all he had to do was make sure no one found out, but it wouldn't stay this way forever, Sherlock was going to move away one day. The question was would John follow him.

* * *

><p>Sherlock lay in bed that night looking back over his day with John. Lestrade had asked him to look over a case he was struggling with, he had solved it in no time at all. Come on Lestrade use that brain of yours he had thought, it was so simple yet why couldn't Lestrade see what to him was perfectly obvious? Honestly the police were so stupid at times. He thought back to John, as always, whenever he was lying in the darkness waiting for sleep to come his thoughts always turned to John. He thought of what John had told him, his mother's death was an accident, it wasn't his fault. John was right, he felt like he could now let go of the anger and bitterness that had been stewing up inside of him. Where there was once pitch black darkness, he now found light. He had now found John. He loved just being with the man, it didn't matter what they did or where they were going, as long as John was there it was enough for him to be happy, and for the first time in his life he felt that he deserved that happiness that had come him way. He fell asleep peacefully, until the dreams started.<p>

_The sun was shining, the grass a vibrant green and the sky a clear blue peppered with fluffy clouds. He could hear birds singing, and Sherlock smiled and laughed happily._

_'__Sherlock.'__It was his mother's voice, calling him from some unknown direction.__'Sherlock,'__she called again._

_'__Mummy,'__he replied.__'Mummy where are you?'__he asked._

_'__Sherlock, where are you? Sherlock help me, I need you, I need you Sherlock, help me, help me Sherlock,'__she cried. Sherlock began to panic._

_'__Where are you? Where are you, Mummy? I can't see you.'__He looked round desperate for a glimpse of his mother. He ran, ran, and ran, tears stinging his eyes his stomach in knots from pure worry and desperation. He needed to find his mother, he needed to find mummy and help mummy, but he couldn't see her. Where was she? Why couldn't he find her? How could he help her if he couldn't find her?_

_'__Help me, Sherlock. Help me.'_

_Oh god, not again, please no not again. Please stop. He needed to wake up. Come on wake up._

_He ran, he ran and ran and ran. Through the fields, through the trees, a aimless direction, his mother's voice calling to him constantly. _

_He came to a line of trees, daisies littered the floor, a small secluded field beyond, he immediately recognised it this time, John was standing there smiling at him. By his side his mother, her bright beaming face looking back at him. Vibrant blue eyes, long hair occasionally rippled by a small breeze. _

_She pulled him into a tight hug, her laughter echoing in his ears. _

'_Oh Sherlock you found me! You found me.' _


	13. About Love

**Howdy Folks :) I got bored of writing angst, and** **I'm pretty sure you guys are bored reading it, so as a change of page this**** chapter has no plot whatsoever, honestly, it has zero, zilch. So if you want anything in terms of story it's probably best you wait for the next update.**

**For the rest of you here is where we get to the M part of this fic, don't give me all this 'Oh it's so well written.' 'I love your characterisation' crap, we all know the real reason you were looking round the M section ;)**

**Enjoy and don't forget to leave me a review.**

**MB**

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><p><span>Hands On Education. <span>

Chapter Thirteen.

About Love

'I'm really sorry, but I can't come in today.'

John made sure to keep his voice as low and husky as he could manage, he had constricted his throat and made sure he breathed in through his nose in an attempt to sound as stuffy as possible. He even gave an entirely unnecessarily violent coughing fit for added effect. There was nothing more he could do now, he had tried his best, done all he could and now it was all up to the women on the other end of the phone, he hoped and prayed he hadn't sounded too fake, that he wouldn't be caught in a lie, that she hadn't seen right through him and would make him come in and actually do his job. His whole day depended on her believing him. He crossed his fingers, hoping his performance was having the desired effect. It had been years since he had done this and he felt very out of practice. He couldn't even remember the last time he had pulled a sickie. He prayed the receptionist at the other end of the phone was believing his lies, there was, after all a fine art to ringing in sick when one was perfectly healthy, but he was feeling confident, a stomach bug had swept it's way through the school and he had given a list of the appropriate symptoms, he doubted they would bat an eyelid at yet another teacher asking for the day off. There was a long pause, John crossed his fingers feeling sick, for real this time, at the stretched out seconds as he waited to find out his fate.

'Okay Mr Watson, I will get someone to cover your lessons, get well soon.'

'Thanks. Goodbye.'

'Goodbye.'

He hung up the phone and beamed, he had done it! He almost punched the air in delight, but then he remembered how old he was, still, he felt proud of himself that he had pulled it off. Now he had the entire day off and the hours stretched out before him in all their glory. A day always felt totally different, time itself felt better, more enjoyable, when you were knew that you really should be at work. He grinned. Today was going to be a good day.

He tapped out a new message on his mobile, the excitement at the day ahead now running through his veins and his chest.

_Recipient: Sherlock Holmes. _

_All set._

_JW_

He put his mobile on the table and went back to his cereal, he heard the sound of running water from upstairs come to an abrupt halt, he had timed the phone call to coincide with Sarah's morning shower, not wanting to risk her overhearing him. He was dressed his usual work clothes, which he would change out of as soon as Sarah left, his bag in its usual place by his feet, the image was all designed so she would think it was just another normal day, he didn't want Sarah to know he was bunking off. She always left before him anyway as she had further to drive. It was so easy, bunking off, he didn't know why he didn't do it more often. The plan he had made was in full swing, all he could do know was eat his breakfast and wait.

His phone buzzed next to him.

_One Message received_

_Surprisingly easy to ring in sick isn't it? I hope you gave a good performance, mine included fake vomiting. Will be round soon._

_SH_

John laughed, imaging the lengths Sherlock would no doubt have gone to convince St Bart's that he really was ill. He reckoned the receptionist would have just given him the day off if only to get him off the phone.

He typed out quick reply.

_Recipient: Sherlock Holmes._

_Just get your arse round here. _

_JW_

_One Message received. _

_Don't worry. My arse and I are on our way_

_SH_

The plan was incredibly simple, so simple in fact a child could have done it, but the simplest plan usually worked out the best. He got the idea as soon as the bug started making it's way round St Bart's. The plan itself consisted of two elements for Sherlock and himself. Both ring in sick, then spend day at John's. What could be more easy then that?

John couldn't wait, he felt like a kid who was waiting for Christmas, he just couldn't wait to see Sherlock again. John owed Sherlock big time, it had been weeks since they had last spent any significant time with each other, the last time they had truly been together was when they had gone on that long walk and ended up recreating their first kiss. John felt so guilty for not being there for Sherlock. Knowing Sherlock was vulnerable, knowing he was the only one Sherlock could rely on, but he had let the younger man down badly. He had spent so much time with Sarah, pretending to still be the kind, attentive husband she once knew, then there was work, he suddenly felt it all come at once and he was buried under so many things he needed to sort out. Then Greg suddenly seemed to want his attention, he felt stressed and warn out, had been snappy and irritable and all in all it had led to him seriously neglecting his younger lover. He had ignored texts from Sherlock, so much so it resulted in him making a grovelling phone call on his mobile while he was out walking Poppy, he begged forgiveness and found himself and apologising over and over again to Sherlock. Sherlock had of course forgiven him.

'When can I see you again?' Sherlock asked, his voice sounding low and dejected, John's heart gave a little whimper.

'Soon, I promise.'

He woke up in the middle of the night a few days ago, finding himself yearning, just aching to be with Sherlock, actually be with him properly, for longer then a simple lunch date in the library or the occasional lesson. The need took control of him so badly that he texted Sherlock right away, and they devised this plan. He hoped Sherlock would forgive him. He hoped a whole day together would take the sting out of being neglected for so long and would make Sherlock forgive him for being so foul the past few weeks.

'Morning.' Sarah sang as she came into the kitchen and made a cup of coffee.

'Morning.' John replied cheerily.

'So what have you got planned for the kids today?' She asked, always taking a strange interest in his work.

'Nothing much, the usual.' John lied, oh if only she knew what he really had planned. His skin was almost itchy with anticipation. He looked at the clock. He wished he could just push Sarah out of the door and to magically be able to shorten the distance between his house and Sherlock's. Soon he told himself, soon.

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><p>Sherlock crouched down behind his makeshift hiding place he had found across the road from John's house, the hedge thick enough to completely shield him from view, yet was parted in such a way he could see out easily. He huffed in annoyance, for god sake what was taking so long? He could still see Sarah's car parked in the driveway and he stared with disdain at the offending object, he glanced down at his watch for the thousandth time. Sarah should have gone by now. He really wished Sarah would be more considerate of him, she already had the lions share of John's attention so why did she have to butt into his valuable time? He got so little time as it was so the last thing he needed was Sarah dawdling.<p>

Finally the door opened at out popped Sarah and John. Finally. Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. He watched as Sarah gave John a hug and kissed him goodbye. His body tensed and his eyes narrowed at these gestures. Seeing John be kissed by someone that was not him, to know that skin was being touched by someone else filled him with a suppressed rage. Honestly could Sarah not see? Could she not see how John didn't respond to her hug, had turned cold and rigid in her arms and backed away as soon as possible. How he didn't kiss her back. He waited and watched, waiting till Sarah car had driven away, he gave John a few minutes to get changed and then ran across the road to John's house, he lent his bicycle against the fence and began knocking on the door as hard as he could, a smile lighting up his features. Sarah would not finish work till five, it was almost half eight now, they had hours and hours ahead of them.

John opened the door quickly, this time dressed in a pair of light blue jeans and Sherlock's favourite oat meal coloured, cable knit jumper. It was a look that was so typically 'John' Sherlock wanted to laugh.

'Took you long enough.' John joked.

'I was waiting for your dearly beloved wife to leave.' Sherlock protested good naturedly.

'Come on.' John gestured inside, the younger man ran straight into the living room. John took Sherlock's bike into the hallway, worrying the neighbours would see it if he just left it were it was.

He followed Sherlock into the sitting room.

'Would you like a drink or anything?' He called out to the younger man, but was immediately interrupted by Sherlock's lips crashing onto his. The familiar sensation of Sherlock's mouth against his, the younger man's tongue exploring and enveloping his open mouth. The feel, the taste, the texture of it all. Two weeks, two whole weeks he had gone without it, god he had missed it.

The found their familiar spot on the sofa and quickly made up for lost time. They kissed and kissed for hours, when they weren't kissing they were talking, and when they weren't talking they were kissing.

Around noon John made them a quick lunch, nothing fancy, just a simple vegetable omelette and a salad before they resumed their position on the sofa. There was something strangely different about these kisses though, hands didn't just explore, they claimed skin as their own, the touches aggressive and passionate. They didn't just kiss but almost attack each other with a loving fury. Something crackled in the air and tension filled the room.

Sherlock wanted John, needed him. Kissing was no longer satisfying, enough was enough and he needed more now. He needed to find more, to be given more. He needed something physical. His cock was hard, so very hard, not just a slight perking of interest, but heavy and straining against his jeans, demanding attention. He bucked his hips into John, desperate for any kind of friction.

John felt it to, Sherlock saw that in the way John was looking at him, a smile on his face and hunger in his eyes, he knew what was happening between them, this time he didn't pull away or put a stop to it. He wanted it just as much as Sherlock, he was waiting for Sherlock to make the first move. To signal he was ready and that he wanted this.

Sherlock was tired of being coy, tired of being virginal and he was sick and tired of John acting so nobly, of protecting Sherlock's chastity, Sherlock wanted to be used by him, he wanted the touch of his skin.

He took John's outstretched palm in his hand, feeling the fingers in his own. Could he do this? He pondered, could he actually, physically, truly do this. To put John's open palm on that forbidden part of himself. He wanted it, had yearned for it, his cock ached for it, he had thought about it constantly when alone at night with his right hand, but this was different, so very different, to step from the hypothetical to the actual doing. He was struck with nerves, fear turning his veins to ice. Would he like it? Would it hurt? What exactly was it he would find underneath the black veil guarding the unknown? He was certain he wanted this, he had spent months being certain, but now the moment came and he felt suddenly incredibly young and afraid. He kept darting his eyes between John's hand and his straining erection, he shook slightly with the alien mixture of arousal and trepidation.

John, ever present John, patient and kind John was, as usual on hand. Knowing the moment had come, knowing Sherlock had made the first move, knowing he was ready, the sign so clearly written on his face. As if his facial expression had formed ink on the page of his face. He licked the outer shell of Sherlock's ear. Causing the younger man to shiver and his cock to twitch.

'Can I Sherlock? Can I touch you?' He whispered in a husked voice. The words sounding almost like a moan, coming out his mouth in lustful tones. Sherlock looked into the eyes of his love, the clear, sky blue eyes, and nodded, he didn't trust himself with the ability to do anything else. A small nod, barely a tilt of the head, yet for both of them it echoed round the room as loudly as a siren, as clear as a bell, the signal to press on. He kissed Sherlock lightly on the forehead, almost a ghost of a touch. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's gently. Just savouring his taste.

'I love you Sherlock, I love you so fucking much.' He whispered. Sherlock wanted to respond, say those three words back to John again and again and again, because it was the truth, because he didn't want to hurt John by not saying it back, though he doubted John questioned how strongly Sherlock's heart did beat for him. Though he found he couldn't speak, couldn't get himself to form words. His throat was suddenly very dry and air stammered out of his mouth erratically from his unsteady breathing.

'Come with me.' John spoke softly, taking his hand and entwining their fingers, he helped Sherlock off the sofa, he tried to lead Sherlock to the stairs but the boy was shaking so badly he had to stop.

'Are you sure you want to do this?'

'Yes, I'm sure. I'm just...scared John.'

'Don't be, please love, don't be scared.' He kissed Sherlock reassuringly. 'If it gets too much we'll stop, but you will love it, I promise, you have nothing to fear, not with me.'

Sherlock gave a warm smile and another nod. 'Show me, show me everything.'

He hauled Sherlock into his arms, picking him up by the thighs to carry him bridal style. Sherlock wrapped an arm round John's neck and held on tightly. John carried him upstairs, leading his across the hall to the far side of the corridor to a little room tucked out of the way, it wasn't John and Sarah's room, but rather a guest bedroom. He opened the door, sunlight poured into the room, the rays seemed to fall directly onto the bed, framing it in sunshine.

'Here we go.' John gently placed Sherlock on the ground, he pulled Sherlock into his arms once more and they continued kissing, mouths locked together, tongues dancing. Something had changed in Sherlock, John could feel it, Sherlock seemed to fill with a kind of nervous confidence, still shaking slightly, still full of tension but he was driving forward, driving towards physical release. John had no choice but to follow, not that he would have ever told Sherlock to stop. John cupped Sherlock's cheek before kissing him fiercely. A loud groan emerged from a mouth, though the origin was uncertain. John pushed his tongue into Sherlock's open mouth. Feeling the warmth and heat, the soft walls ready and waiting for him. He probed his tongue gently, it flickered this way and that with wanton abandonment. Electricity filled the air. Spark seemed to fly everywhere at even the barest of touches.

'Like I said we can stop anytime you want.' John reminded the younger man.

Sherlock shook his head. 'No. I want this.' John gave a small nod.

Taking Sherlock's hand John began kissing lightly on the knuckles before kissing along his fingers. Sherlock watched intently as John slipped his middle and index finger into his mouth, he sucked gently, coating the fingers in his own saliva, his warm, wet tongue running along the pads of Sherlock's violin calloused fingers, his tongue wrapping itself around the skin. Sherlock stood opened mouthed as John did this. He gave a small moan and began to rock the fingers back and forth into John's mouth. His cock strained in his trousers as John acted out his intentions, giving Sherlock a promise of what was to come.

John took Sherlock's hand away, Sherlock noticed how his eyes were blown wide with lust. His breathing lowered and like Sherlock, his erection bulged against his jeans. Sherlock stared at the bulge with curiosity, he had never seen John so aroused, being older John seemed to have the ability to control himself, yet now he had clearly just let biology take over, it looked impossibly long and thick.

'Can I see you? Properly I mean?' John's voice was incredibly low and husky, it went straight to Sherlock's already straining member. The voice was filled with sex. He had never heard John sound so deep and lustful, his words dripping with honey, dark and sordid.

Sherlock nodded eagerly and began to undress, John was going to see him for the first time as he truly was. Sherlock hoped he liked what he saw, luckily he had no bruises to worry about, but he had always been conscious of how slim he was, his skin stretching tightly over his bones. Would John like that? Would he like his angular features and sharp edges? He hoped so. He slipped out of the dark blue hoodie, discarding it carelessly on the floor, then he took of his t shirt and socks, followed by his jeans, finally he was left in just his tight black boxer shorts, a large dark wet patch had formed from where pre-come had leaked from the tip of his penis, he paused for a few moments, trying to work himself up to the next step and hooked his fingers in the waistband of his underwear, then with a deep breath, he screwed up his eyes and pulled his underwear. He felt incredibly exposed and self conscious, standing here entirely naked before his love, knowing John could see every line of his body. He didn't open his eyes, afraid of John's reaction, afraid John was finding him ugly. What if he repulsed John?

He felt John come into his personal space, his hot breath warm his face. John placed his hands on Sherlock's hips gently and pulled him forward.

'You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life.' Sherlock let out a breath he didn't even know he was holding in, Sherlock fluttered his eyes open, seeing John standing in front of him. A huge smile on his face, a huge, beaming, genuine smile, Sherlock had never felt quite so loved as he did in that moment. He smiled self consciously.

'Really?' He choked out. He had spent most of his life being told he was worthless, useless, and now here he was, offering himself up to John and John had told him he was beautiful, it was unique experience that he would cherish always.

John couldn't quite believe it, that this amazing, beautiful, entirely unique man was his, entirely his, Sherlock naked had took his breath away, he was so heart-stoppingly beautiful that John forgot how to breathe. His body was mile upon mile of porcelain skin, he had a small smattering of hair on his chest and stomach and two rosy pink nipples. Further down was a patch of curly black pubic hair, the same shade of black as his hair, framed an impressive length that was glistening with pre-cum . Like Sherlock it was long and slender, standing to attention and impossibly hard. John's mouth watered, he didn't even know where to begin. He couldn't quite believe this body, this amazing, magnificent and beautiful body was being offered to him. That he had the task of giving it pleasure. He almost came right there and then at just the sight of Sherlock standing there entirely naked for him.

'Come here.' He beckoned and led Sherlock to the bed. 'Lie down' he instructed quietly. Sherlock did so, lying down in the middle of the large double bed. The mattress was soft and comfortable, his head propped up by large fluffy pillows as he lay there and waited for John.

John took off his jumper and jeans, throwing them on top of the pile of Sherlock's clothes on the floor. He felt more comfortable this way, just in his tee shirt and underwear, and he hoped that being half naked would make Sherlock feel less self conscious. He lay down flushed beside Sherlock, warm bare skin meeting warm bare skin. John put his leg between Sherlock's so their hips could slot together, the both gasped in unison as their erections nuzzled together. John kissed Sherlock, then licked the outer shell of Sherlock's ear and was rewarded with a small groan from the younger man. He kissed a trail down Sherlock's neck, before sucking and nipping at his pulse point, he grinned as he left a mark, it was his claim of ownership, the mark that Sherlock belonged to him and no body else. He shuffled down on the bed as he carried on kissing, leaving hundreds of small pecks of affection on his lover. Sherlock skin was so soft and warm, so silky smooth that John didn't want to do anything but kiss. To feel Sherlock's body on his lips and his taste on his tongue. He took a nipple between his teeth, Sherlock gasped and writhed on the bed as John swirled his tongue over and over till it was a hard nub. John couldn't get enough of Sherlock, he kissed him anywhere and everywhere he could find, he kissed along his neck, arms, chest, legs, thighs, his open palm tracing the maps of Sherlock's body.

Sherlock giggled, finding he was slightly ticklishness, he writhed and moaned as John found his pleasure points, he felt like John was worshiping him, that he was taking every single speck of his body and committing it to memory. John kissed, nipped, licked and tongued him from the top of his head to the bottom of his toes. He felt like every part of him was dancing with electricity, his mind gorgeously blank, a pool of intense desire in the base of his stomach, his hair stood on end, as if magnetised towards John, like a compass pointing north. John's kisses like fire of his skin. He felt so loved, so worshiped, so honored, though John was leaving a crucial part of him alone.

His cock was begging, pleading for his touch. Bucking his hips shamelessly in a desperate attempt for friction.

'John.' He moaned.

John nipped at the inside of Sherlock thighs before bringing himself eye level with Sherlock's erection. He tentatively reached out his hand and wrapped his hand around Sherlock's cock, feeling the hardness of Sherlock's sex. Giving it the lightest of touch, almost unafraid to continue. He gave it the most ghosting of touches, running the sensitive flesh along his fingers, gently, oh so gently pulling the foreskin up and over the tip, flicking his thumb over the end as he gently began to jerk Sherlock off.

Sherlock moaned, intense desire forming in his spine and pooling in his stomach, he had felt nothing at all like this, ten times more intense then doing it with his own hand. He threw his head back and let out a moan. Desire, lust, pure ecstasy flooded a system. John quickened his pace, adding pressure to his touch as he firmed his grip. Then he stopped, his hand slid further down to the base, holding Sherlock in place, what replaced his hand was John's smooth wet tongue, lapping at the sensitive flesh, tasting the sweet tanginess of his pre-cum. He licked the underside of Sherlock's penis, working his way up to the tip where he lapped his tongue over the edge, diving his tongue inside the slit, pulling the foreskin down so he gained better access to the head. Swirling his tongue around Sherlock's erection then pushing it inside his mouth, savoring each quiver and groan. Sherlock would not last long, this being his first time.

Sherlock watched as John bobbed his head back and forth, watched as his dick disappeared into John's mouth. He was being driven totally insane. He felt his body being covered with a thin film of sweat, intense, uncontrollable pressure formed all over his body as John sucked. Curling his toes and gripping the bed sheets in his hands so hard his knuckles were turning white. John's tongue, John's hand, John's touch, it was all too much, the pressure in his spine, he couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, it was all so all consuming, he couldn't handle the pleasure, it was all too much, he couldn't handle it at all, he felt like he was going to explode at any moment, he wanted to escape the white hot fury of what was running through him, it was so good, it was too good. The ecstasy happening so fast he wanted to run away from it all.

'John stop, please.'

John immediately pulled off him. 'What's wrong? Did I hurt you?' a note of panic in his voice.

'No. It's too much John, I can't John, I just can't.'

John smiled reassuringly. 'Please love, just let go.' He wrapped his hand around Sherlock's and gave it a small squeeze. 'Let me finish you. Please.'

Sherlock lay back, his head hit the pillow. John went back to giving him head, again swirling his tongue around, running it over the tip and around the edge, he hollowing his cheeks out so his mouth formed an O shape and sucked. This time Sherlock did not fight what he felt, deciding to just go with it. He writhed on the bed, panting John's name over and over again. Curling his toes into his feet, his hands forming tight balls, the pleasure rocked through him, shaking him to the very core.

'Oh god, oh god' Sherlock's whole body rose up off the bed, his stomach muscled contracting almost painfully.

'Cum for me.' John whispered 'Cum for me beautiful.' He pushed Sherlock's member back into his mouth, as far down his throat as he could manage.

He grabbed John's head in his hands, feeling the soft hair in his fingers.

'JOHN!' He yelled. 'John, oh god John'

Sherlock let out a low groan and soon was cumming, thick white hot ribbons of sperm down into John's throat.

Sherlock's orgasm had hit him like a lightning bolt, wave after wave of white hot pleasure ripped through him again and again, it was so strong he faded out for a few moment. He collapsed back into the bed. Unable to do anything but watch as John swallowed his seed, a gestured that was both faintly disgusting and stirringly erotic. John licked around his lips. Sherlock lay there panting, desperately trying to get his breathing back to normal. He closed his eyes for a few moments.

'That was amazing.' he whispered to John.

John gave a low chuckle before kissing Sherlock's temple lightly.

They lay down on the bed again, flushed against each other, kissing lazily. Sherlock felt John's own hardness graze his leg.

'I want to do something for you John.'

'You don't have to Sherlock.'

'No I want to.'

He pulled John's tee shirt over his head, looking over his body, drinking him in hungrily with his eyes. He felt the outline of John's body with his hands, kissing along the white expanse of smooth skin. Tweaking the nipples in his fingers, feeling the soft body hair. Sherlock's hand came to a nasty looking scar on John's left shoulder.

'Motorcycle accident. I know it's ugly.'

'Its beautiful.' He kissed the raised flesh, running his tongue along the grooves and turrets of the broken skin. With his head pounding in his chest he slipped his hands underneath the waistband of John's underwear. Lifting it up over his erection and pulling it down over his thighs. He gasped as he took in John's sex. It was a little shorter then his, but incredibly thick. Perfect and entirely well formed, just like John himself.

'Come here.' John took Sherlock's hand in his own, his hand over Sherlock's. He took Sherlock's hand over to him and placed it over his erection. He was holding John's cock, he was touching Mr Watson's cock. Shit. Those thoughts seemed to go round and round in his head.

'Like this.' John guided Sherlock's hand, showing him how he liked to be touched. John threw his head back, screwing his eyes shut and began to moan lightly. Sherlock grinned as he wanked off John, seeing the enjoyment so evident on his face, he smiled knowing he was the one that was doing this to John. That he could bring John to completion, while he had enjoyed the bliss John had given him, it was nothing compared to how he felt being the one providing the ecstasy. Seeing John pulse and twitch, seeing him moan, his breath quicken, knowing it was all down to him. His chest swelled with pride.

John's breath quickened and soon John ejaculated all over their hands, hot and white.

'Oh god.' John murmured.

'Did I do it right?' Sherlock asked. John gave a throaty laugh.

'Yeah. Yeah you did.'

He pulled back the covers and Sherlock snuggled down into John's side, the overwhelming urge to sleep flooding him. He sighed contentedly and nuzzled into John's neck, his head falling onto John's chest. John pulled some tissues out of a nearby box and mopped them both up as best he could.

They slept soundly, dozing heavily, contented just to lie in the warmth of each other. Sherlock yawned, feeling an ache in between his legs that he savored.

When Sherlock awoke he found that they hadn't moved, John was still on his back holding Sherlock in his arms. He looked up at his older lover.

'Hey.'

'Hi'

They both gave a small laugh, Sherlock nestled in closer to John, something John encouraged as he loved the feel of Sherlock's naked body against his. They were sticking together with sweat and spunk, something John found he didn't really care about, at least not right now.

'You know eventually we are going to have to get up.'

'Yeah, but not yet.'

'No Sherlock, not yet.'


	14. Killer of Sheep

**Hello everyone! Bet you didn't think you would be seeing me so soon? :D**

**Firstly just a huge thank you, honestly thank you all for your support it means so much to me, you have all given me such a boost and I'm really determined to finish this now. I haven't got a new laptop I'm afraid (bleh) so I hand wrote this and then typed it up in my library with a really scary librarian scowling at me all the time. Oh if only she knew what I was writing. **

**Updates come with all the uncertainty of the Greek Bail Out fund, but I will finish. Hear that? I WILL! **

**MB**

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><p><span>Hands on Education.<span>

Chapter 14.

Killer of Sheep.

'Twit-Twoo. Twit-twoo.'

Sherlock awoke with a start, the sharp noise shattering the quite night and jolting his body awake. It was that dam owl again, that dam owl had been keeping him awake for a number of nights now, just as he would fall asleep the thing would call out in its distinctive tones and he would be wide awake again. It had built a nest right by his bedroom window, though he could not see the nest in daylight he knew it was close, occasionally he could see a ball of white flapping its wings against the black backdrop. Not that he needed any reminding it was there, it was loud enough to make forgetting its presence impossible. He spent a few minutes thinking what it would be like if he himself were an owl. To have bright, shining eyes, and to be able to twist his head all around so he could see everywhere. To fly with absolute precision and grace, praying on small animals for sustenance. He mentally put Moriarty's head on the body of a mouse then imagined swooping down and catching him in his sharp talons. He giggled.

He tried to fall asleep again, but found his brain just would not shut off, admitting defeat he leant over and switched on his bedside lamp, casting his room in a warm, glow. He checked his phone for messages, but there was nothing. He felt a pang of disappointment, but was not surprised. It was gone midnight after all, John would probably be fast asleep by now. He pondered texting him, but decided against it. The last text had been well over an hour ago, simply saying 'goodnight'. Sherlock gave a small sigh, he missed John, he wanted John, even if it was only a few words on a screen. It had been such a long day and he would give anything to have John with him right here and right now. It seemed the more time he spent with the older man, the more he felt the pain of being apart. It was an acute pain, he felt it right in his chest, as if someone was stabbing him with a small blade right in the heart. He had spent all day with John, and still it was not enough. He wondered if a lifetime would be enough, especially now as he had discovered the gloriousness of sexual intimacy. After they had woken up from their small sleep in the guest room of John's house, John had insisted on spending the rest of the day fussing over Sherlock. He held him, he kissed him, and he asked him over and over again if he was alright. Telling him that he was loved, that he was beautiful, and that he was perfect. Constantly asking him again and again if there was anything he needed or wanted. Sherlock had joked that the only thing he needed was John naked and writhing. Despite protesting that he was completely serious, John laughed. Now John was gone. Once again he dropped Sherlock off outside his own home, once again he promised to meet up soon, once again he returned to Sarah. Silence fell, and without John's constant chatter Sherlock felt unexpectedly vulnerable.

He crept downstairs into the dark kitchen and poured himself a glass of water. Staring out the kitchen window, sipping on the cold, clear liquid he once again thought back to the day's events. Calling in sick, sneaking round John's, John seeing him naked, seeing John naked, John sucking him off. He shook his head, his pyjama bottoms already beginning to tighten. He didn't especially want an erection while drinking water in his kitchen. He would save that for John. Now he had known what it felt like to have those lips wrapped round his hardness he knew that his right hand would never satisfy him ever again.

On the outside he was exactly the same. He looked exactly the same, his life was exactly the same. He was still a seventeen year old school boy. There was not the slightest difference between pre blow job Sherlock, and post blow job Sherlock. Yet on the inside he felt so different, so very, very different he could barely wrap his head around it. Now he knew physical release he felt like his old self had disappeared and a brand new Sherlock had been put in its place. He felt that there had been a massive shift in his psyche, he would never be quite the same ever again. He also didn't understand why people did anything else. If sex was this good, how come people did such boring things like go to work or do the shopping? How come they didn't just stay inside and have sex all day?

Maybe because no one else was as good as John he sniggered to himself.

He felt much closer to John now he had the experience of using John's body, and of John using him. He had always thought they were as close as two people could be, but he was wrong. Nothing could compare to this. He felt part of John now, now he had seen what was underneath those ridiculous jumpers, and John was part of him. Everything had become so much more intense.

He briefly wondered that, if this was what happened after a blow job, how the hell he would feel if and when John fucked him, at first it sent a jolt of excitement through him, but the more he thought about it, the more it scared the living daylights out of him.

He thought back to John's naked body, the tight, toned muscles and soft, silky skin. He remembered the sight of his hard cock disappearing into that mouth, the indescribable 'oh god yes' feeling of that talented tongue going to work and bringing him totally undone, but mostly he remembered the love and cherishment John bestowed upon him. His eyes lighting up as Sherlock presented him with his naked body. How John had mapped out his body with his touch and showered him with kisses. He was so gentle and loving, yet strong and urgent. He felt like a temple, he felt worshipped.

It was all so different now, it was all a million miles away from where he was in that very moment, standing in his lonely kitchen in his cold, and bleak, empty house. He would give anything, absolutely anything with John once more. To have his arms wrapped round him, curling around his waist and pinning him close. To fall asleep snuggled into the older mans side would be bliss, but no, he didn't get to have such things. He wasn't allowed. He was the affair, would always be the affair so he wasn't honoured with these gifts. That privilege once again belonged to Sarah, he understood that, of course he did, but understanding didn't take the sting out. Facing the truth didn't numb the pain. Just because he knew his place didn't mean he didn't suffer. He often wished he could be entirely ignorant. Then he could live in an entirely different world.

Maybe that's what they were doing right now? Maybe they were sleeping soundly while cuddling tightly? Wrapped up in their own little cocoon. Had John touched Sarah just like they had done earlier in the day? Maybe he had made Sarah writhe, pant and call out his name just like he had made him do? And now they were nakedly snuggiling beside one another, sleeping peacefully. He shook his head trying to dispel the thoughts. He felt anger and bile rise up in his throat, he was furious with his own mind for conjuring up those images, for putting those venomous thoughts in his head. He was happy, why couldn't his brain just leave him alone? Why did it have to betray him by shining a light of his fears? For believing the worst was happening. John loved him. _Loved him._ He wouldn't do that to him. Would he?

* * *

><p>'Hey there handsome.'<p>

Irene Adler winked at him as he entered the lab that Saturday as always. Her long eyelashes fluttering about and her blood red lips pulled into a smile. Sherlock could feel himself blush. Dammit why did this woman have this effect on him? Could he not control himself? It was so easy, he had done it around every single person he had ever met, well, except John of course, but Irene Adler made him awkward, made him blush and act like a fool. She made him human, and Sherlock hated her for it. Behind her sultry smile was row upon row of glistening white teeth, he could see her pink tongue play with them, running itself along the edges of the enamel. He gave a small smile by way of greeting.

'How was your week?' She asked sweetly. Well, sweetly wasn't really the way to describe it, her gaze was fixated on him following his every movement. It was as if a shark was asking him how his week was before ripping him apart with its powerful jaws. Irene Adler did not do sweet.

Sherlock gave a half hearted shrug.

'Same old same old.' He added, taking off his coat and hanging it carefully on the rack before positioning himself behind a microscope.

Irene rolled her eyes, clearly not satisfied with the response Sherlock had given. She was like a dog with a bone and Sherlock knew she would not let go till she got what she wanted. 'If I was straight.' Sherlock thought 'I would probably fancy her.' Sherlock began to play about with the slides, staring down the lenses at the subject. He heard the scraping of a chair and the sound of high heels striking against the floor. The smell of expensive perfume filled his nose as Irene leant into his space, he could feel her hot breath against his ear.

'Come on Sherlock.' She whispered. Her voice low and husky. 'I've been so good to you, letting you come in my lab and do all sorts of exciting experiments, the least you could do is tell me whether or not you have shagged that handsome biology teacher of yours yet?'

Sherlock jerked his head around to face Irene so quickly he almost snapped his neck in half. He felt a wave of pure panic flood him. Someone knew. John had made it so clear that no one could ever find out about him yet someone had. This was not good, this was not good at all. His perfect existence, or as perfect as his life could ever be, had suddenly come screeching to a halt.

'How could you?' He spluttered 'How could you possibly know?'

'I've known for ages.' She said simply 'Your brother and I go way back, wouldn't be much of a friend if I didn't know who his baby brother was opening his legs for now would I?'

Another wave of emotion hit him, this time it was a burning hatred for his brother. Honestly could the man not leave him alone? Even when he was at university his looming presence seemed to surround Sherlock.

'Your not going to tell anyone are you? You have to promise not tell anyone.' He pleaded. The tone alien on his lips.

Irene giggled 'Of course I won't tell anyone Shirley. Where's the fun in that.'

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but right at that moment Lestrade came bursting through the door calling his name.

'Murder in Church Street, old lady by the name of Mrs Perkins, widow. Cause of death is stabbing you interested?'

Sherlock stared at the silver haired detective in bewilderment. 'Really? Me? You want me to have a look?' He couldn't quite believe this was really happening.

Lestrade nodded at him. 'I told you if you were good I would let you come to crime scenes, well now here is your chance. I've sent John a text and he has agreed to be your chaperone.'

Sherlock pouted 'I don't need a babysitter.' Even if it is my boyfriend he mentally added.

Lestrade shrugged 'Yeah, and I'm the queen of Sheba, now come on let's go.'

John knew better then to be offended when he arrived at the crime scene and Sherlock all but ignored him. A brief hello and a few words from Lestrade was all he got before Sherlock darted inside the victims house. John didn't mind of course, he knew Sherlock had not done it on purpose, once that great mind had latched onto something there was no letting go. Not until he had solved everything, had taken it apart and devoured it using that massive brain of his. Nothing and no one could distract him. The entire world could end, but if Sherlock was thinking, John highly doubted Sherlock would notice, he probably wouldn't even bat an eye.

John just stood next to Lestrade in the victim's living room watching his younger lover set to work. The body of the victim, Mrs Perkins, was sprawled out in front of them. The widow lay next to an open fireplace, which fizzled and crackled with life. Sherlock started by inspecting her, then looking around the room, taking everything in. Cataloguing and dissecting in a way only he knew how.

'I'm going out for a fag.' Lestrade informed them. 'Back in a bit.'

Once the pair were alone Sherlock once again knelt by the victim, though this time John joined him. He stared down at what was once the body of an old woman, though it didn't seem that human anymore, the poor women had been stabbed so many times it was unrecognisasble. A large pool of blood had seeped into the carpet. John felt queasy, he normally had a strong stomach but this, this was too much. He briefly wondered if Sherlock should have been kept away, if he was far too young to see such a sight, but he doubted it had bothered him in the same way it had affected John. He didn't think Sherlock had seen it like he had, he didn't think Sherlock had seen an old women whose life had been brutally ripped away from her, an old woman who didn't deserve to end her life in pain and suffering, no, Sherlock had just seen a list of deductions he had made.

'Anything' he asked the younger man, keen to break the stony silence.

There was a long pause. 'It's cold' he answered finally.

'How can you be cold? We are right by a fire. See this is what I mean by you needing body fat.' John teased. Sherlock shook his head.

'That's not what I meant, I meant the murder, and the murder is cold.'

'How do you mean?'

Sherlock took a deep breath and began 'There is no signs of a break in, nothing was taken, there is an expensive gold ring and a watch still on her wrist. This was no robbery gone wrong, whoever killed her knew her routine, knew she would be home and when she was at he most vulnerable. Whoever it was she let in, so clearly it's somebody local. Then there is the sheer number of times she has been stabbed, if this was a crime of passion they would have stopped as soon as she was dead, but I counted nearly forty five wounds on her, it's pure overkill, they kept stabbing her over and over again, long after she would have stopped breathing. Plus there is the central heating.'

The central heating? What has that got to do with anything?'

'Oh come on John just think!' Sherlock replied exacerbated. 'The heating is on and last was not especially chilly. It would have been perfectly warm enough yet when we arrive there is a fire? The killer lit that to keep her body warm so we couldn't determine time of death, though that clearly shows he doesn't know as much as he think he does as using body temperature to determine time of death is incredibly outdated.' Sherlock looked around the room again, nothing missed under his hawk like glare 'She isn't a rich women, just look around you, enough money to live off and a bit saved up, but certainly not a worthy amount to kill someone over, plus she is ninety, why kill someone who will be dead in a few years anyway? There is no rhyme or reason to this murder, no logically explanation to why it should happen at all, it's like whoever did this simply did it because they could.'

John took a few moments to let Sherlock's words sink in. Sherlock was right, whoever did this was one heartless bastard. When Lestrade returned from his cigarette Sherlock repeated everything he had told John. Then the detective quickly ushered the pair out of the house. Forensics would be coming any minute now and he didn't want to explain why Sherlock and John were there.

'I have a lot of work to do now, but if I have some time later do you fancy going for a pint?' Lestrade asked John.

'Sure. See you soon I hope.' John agreed before turning to Sherlock.

'Need a lift home?' He asked but the younger man shook his head.

'My house is only a few streets away, I'll walk.'

John shrugged, a little disappointed at the rejection. 'okay I'll see you at school.' Sherlock nodded and began walking away, John carried on watching the solitary figure till he was far out of sight.

* * *

><p>'You have a visitor.' His father hissed at him as soon as he got home. He wasn't even through the door.<p>

'Who?'

'I don't fucking know, there in the kitchen.' his father grabbed his jacket and stormed out, slamming the front door behind him, off to spend another evening down the pub.

Sherlock wondered who could possibly be visiting him, he had left John and Lestrade minutes earlier, Mycroft was in Oxford, he thought maybe Irene Adler had come to torment him some more, but when he wondered into the Kitchen, the face looking back at him belonged to Jim Moriarty.

'Hello Sherlock.' The weasel featured man smiled.

'What the hell do you want? What the fuck do you think you are doing in my house' Sherlock hissed at his enemy.

'Now now Sherlock, where are your manners? You know its customary to offer a guest a drink when they come and visit?'

Sherlock scowled at the boy before storming over to the kettle and flicking it on.

'Tea or coffee?'

'Tea thanks' Sherlock kept the scowl fixed firmly of his face as he hunted around for mugs and tea bags. While his back was turned he felt Moriarty's icy stare on him. Tea made he gave a mug to Moriarty and took a seat opposite. He took a sip of the hot liquid and glared. Moriarty gave a low chuckle.

'It's such a shame you are not more excited to see me Sherlock.'

'And when have you ever given me a reason to be excited to see you? You have bullied me my entire life so forgive me for not being very enthusiastic at your visit'

Moriarty gave another chuckle. 'Such a shame. We're the same you know Sherlock, you and me, both so very clever, both so very _bored_, think of the fun we could have together, we could have so much fun, we could bring the world to it's knees.'

'I'm nothing like you.' Sherlock snapped adamantly.

'Now we both now that's not true.' Moriarty spoke so calmly, so devoid of emotion it was unnerving. He took a long sip of his tea, his eyes constantly on Sherlock. 'Have you figured it out yet?' He continued 'Have you figured out why I'm here?'

Sherlock scoffed, of course he did.

'Why did you kill her?'

'And what makes you so certain it was me?

'As soon as I figured out only a heartless bastard could have done it.'

Moriarty gave another sinister chuckle.

'I killed her because she was a sheep, and because she was home.' He shrugged 'It could have been anyone, but she was home. You know ever since I can remember I've always had a thirst, I used to be able to sedate it, quench it, all I had to do was bully you and pull wings of flies. But it all became too much and I couldn't control it anymore, this darkness inside me, I had to kill, so I did.' He shrugged again and took another sip of tea. 'I have plans Sherlock, I'm getting together an organisation, its pretty small but it will get bigger. It's such a shame you have chosen the side of the angels, I could do with someone like you.'

'Why are you here?' Sherlock was getting impatient now.

'I told you I…..'

'No' Sherlock interrupted. 'Why are you really here?'

Moriarty smiled at him 'To make you a promise.'

'A promise?' Sherlock raised an eyebrow quizzically.

'Yes Sherlock, a promise. I want you to know that this little game of ours isn't over. We will meet again, someday. I promise you that. Plus I'm a fugitive now and you know how sentimental I am, I just couldn't resist saying goodbye.' He glugged down the last of his tea before standing up and wrapping his coat round himself. 'I have to be in London by nightfall, better dash.'

'What makes you think I'm going to let you go? What makes you think I wont call the police right now?'

Moriarty laughed, a deep, throaty laugh. 'Because I know you Sherlock and I know you won't. You've picked the game Sherlock. You will always pick the game.'

Moriarty walked to the door, pressing down on the handle before he paused and turned to face Sherlock once more. 'Look after Molly for me, you know I felt something for her once, but it's you Sherlock. It's always been about you.'

He opened the kitchen door 'Goodbye. Till next time Sherlock.' He called back before stepping out of the front door.

Sherlock sat in silence, his tea had gone stone cold long ago, he just sat and stared at the empty place where Moriarty had once been. The words the other boy had spoken going round and round in his head. Moriarty had come into his house, confessed to a murder, told him his future plans, even where he was heading, all because he wanted to make Sherlock a promise, a promise that this was not over, a promise that the game had already begun. Moriarty was right, he would not tell a soul. His enemy knew his love of detective work was not because he wanted justice, or to see bad men behind bars. It was because he loved a puzzle. Moriarty knew Sherlock would pick the game, he knew he could waltz into Sherlock's house and tell him everything, because he knew Sherlock would pick the game. He wouldn't tell a soul, because he wanted that future meeting with Moriarty.

Moriarty, who had bullied him his whole life, who was his enemy, actually knew him better then anybody else.

He would tell no one, not even John. Sweet, kind, brave, loving John, would just not understand. He understood so much, but not this. He knew he would find Molly crying at her boyfriends disappearance, and he knew he would be there to provide kind words and a shoulder to cry on. He also knew that the death of Mrs Perkins would become yet another cold case file at Bakerford police station.

See you soon Moriarty. See you very soon.

* * *

><p>John knocked on the bathroom door, the hollow sounds echoing in the air were quickly followed by the sound of splashing water.<p>

'I'm off for a pint with Greg' He lied, the truth was the detective inspector had cancelled their pub plans just hours before, the Perkins case has him swamped and he had to work late. Sherlock had texted him immediately afterwards saying he was home alone and John just would not resist the allure of his younger lover. The Greg story was the perfect cover up, not that Sarah would know any of this.

'Okay. Don't get too drunk.' She called back. Her voice layered with a slight tone of annoyance that her husband had interrupted her bath. John could her the soft, jazzy music she was playing, he could see the flicker of tea lights through the bottom of the door. Her imagined her with a glass of wine in one hand and a trashy romance novel in the other. Probably smiling to herself that she had managed to get rid of her husband for the evening. Honestly is this what women did to relax? Lie in their own filth while reading shit books? Not that he really cared, not when the promise of Sherlock was calling out to him.

He climbed into his car and speeded down the streets, his car stereo on as loud as it would go. He sang along, not caring that he was thirty five and acting stupid. He felt like a teenager again, going to someone's house while their parents were away? Filled with excitement at the prospect of a snog, maybe even a grope? It was bringing back pleasant memories. Not that the casual partners of his youth were anything like the all consuming love he felt for Sherlock.

He was eternally grateful when Sherlock opened the door wearing just jeans and a tee shirt. He hated seeing Sherlock in school uniform, unlike some men that particular fantasy never had any appeal for him. To him the material was used a physical reminder of who exactly Sherlock was, when he was in normal clothes John found he could forget it was a pupil he was holding in his arms.

'Evening stranger.' He grinned, kissing Sherlock boldly on the cheek before being led inside. As soon as the door was closed Sherlock snuggled into his arms, pulling him tightly into a hug, burying his face into his neck. John once again feeling those soft curls tickling his nose.

'I missed you.'

John laughed. 'I've only been gone a few hours.' The last time he had seen Sherlock was at the crime scene earlier that day.

Sherlock shrugged 'Still missed you.' He pressed his lips lightly to John's neck. John closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment.

He had never been inside Sherlock's house before, always dropping his off outside, never once coming in. John also had a strange feeling Sherlock preferred being at his place, now looking around he could clearly see why. The place the picture of neglect. All the curtains were drawn, very little sunlight seemed to creep through. Paint and wallpaper were peeling of the walls and the furniture looked old and warn, so old an warn even the most desperate of charity shops would reject them. Sarah would have a heart attack if any of this stuff came inside her neat and tidy home.

It was the very opposite of a happy home, it made John and Sarah's modest house look like a palace.

'It used to be nice.' Sherlock spoke sensing his unease. 'But since mum died dad has just given up caring. Come on I'll show you my room.'

Sherlock felt slightly uneasy when John entered his room, after all no one else came into this space, so having someone else's presence here was new to him. It was his private sanctuary, but strangely he didn't want John to leave.

The room reminded John of his old student halls before he had moved in. Completely bare and soulless, ready for someone to stamp their personality on the place. There was furniture, a few scattered books on the desk and a rumpled duvet, and the skull he had given the younger man all those months ago, but nothing else to suggest someone lived here.

'It's so bare.' He commented, staring at the sky blue walls.

'I like it this way.' Sherlock shrugged. 'Come here I want to show you something.'

He led John to his small single bed, the older man perched on the end causing the old mattress to squeak at the weight.

Sherlock rummaged around his desk drawer before pulling out his most private of possession, he gave it a quick look before handing the photograph to John.

'That's my mum.' He explained, ever since their conversation at John's house about her death, he had been yearning to show John the only picture he had of her.

John smiled as he took the image in. The women was beautiful, almost as captivating as her son. The same curly hair, black as night, the high cheekbones and grey eyes. She had none of Sherlock's seriousness, her mouth pulled into the kind of smile he rarely saw on his younger lover. There was something else as well.

'Is that you?' He pointed a finger at a small toddler she held in her arms. He had a patch of wild black hair, a prominent cupids bow and to his surprise, incredibly rosy and chubby cheeks.

'Yes that's me.' Sherlock felt a flush of embarrassment.

'Oh you are adorable.' John cooed. 'You're the cutest thing I have ever seen.' It was true, toddler Sherlock, despite his lack of smile was seriously cute. Even cuter then poppy when she was a pup.

'I am not adorable.' Sherlock protested.

'Oh yes you are, just look at your chubby little fingers.'

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and went back to the desk drawer. 'There is something else as well.'

John stopped teasing him and wondered what else Sherlock wanted to show him.

'Here' Sherlock presented him with a folded bit of paper. He wondered what was so special about it till he saw that the paper had been expertly folded into a paper aeroplane.

'It's the one you made in that detention you gave me. I want you to know I kept it, I wanted you to know I was in love with you even back then.'

John felt his breath catch in his throat. He toyed with it between his fingers gently, he had totally forgotten all about it, all about the detention, all about the time when Sherlock was just his student and not his everything. He had no idea Sherlock had felt something for him back then, that he would keep something as trivial as a paper aeroplane simply because he had made it, he had assumed Sherlock's love for him was made out in the snow, clearly he was wrong.

'I can't believe you kept it.'

'It's the only thing I have of yours.' Sherlock explained.

He handed Sherlock back the paper and the photograph.

'Thank you' He mentally told the image of Sherlock's mother. 'Thank you for him.'

Sherlock carefully placed the objects back in the drawer before turning back to John.

'Can we kiss now?' He asked. John just laughed, admiring Sherlock's forwardness.

'Sure.'

They lay down on the best, quite a tight squeeze with two of them, but the managed, John propped up against the wall and Sherlock lying mostly underneath him they managed to fit. The kiss, as usual, was deep and electric, John's brain turned to a thick sludge as soon as his lips met Sherlock's. Hands roaming everywhere, much to delight of both of them. Sherlock managed to elicit small whimpers fro the older man with every kiss. Quickly he changed positions so he lay on top of Sherlock straddling his thighs. He lightly cupped John's growing erection in his palm, causing John to gasp and buck his hips into Sherlock's palm, all the while kissing him ravenously. They were both desperate to feel the touch of the other. John was like salt water, Sherlock mused, the more he had, the more he wanted to drink.

Sherlock quickly undid John's belt buckle, toying with the zip before pulling it down so his trousers, and then his boxers, rested just above John's knees. He knew what John wanted, and Sherlock knew what he wanted him to do, he just wasn't sure how, he had never done this before so he was uncertain over exactly what it was he should be doing. He decided to simply copy what John had done to him. Leaning down he gave an experimental lick of Johns hard cock, finding the tangy taste of pre-come mixed in with John's signature taste to be strangely pleasant. He pulled the foreskin down with one hand and licked the underside of the hard muscle, then round the tip, letting his tongue flicker into the slit. John groaned, his breath coming out in short, sharp pants before stopping altogether when Sherlock swallowed him down. Sherlock alternated between hallowing out his cheeks and sucking hard, and then bobbing up and down, stopping just before his gag reflex kicked in, covering John's dick with his saliva. He felt John's hand slip into his hair, not pushing his down, or guiding him in any way, they were just holding his head while he gently fucked his throat. Sherlock was pretty confident he was doing something right as he felt John tense up, desperately trying to stop himself from writhing about uncontrollably. It was a strange feeling, knowing that John's penis was in his mouth, but it felt so right. He didn't want to stop. He wanted to be the one to make John come, he wanted John to scream his name. He had completely lost himself as soon as he felt his mouth invaded by John's hard cock.

When John had looked down and seen that cupids bow wrapped round his cock he honestly thought he would come right there and then, he was fairly certain his brain had short circuited, it took every ounce of brain power he had left, not to pound his hips as hard as he could into that mouth. Despite being Sherlock's first time, despite being unpractised and messy, it was incredible, no one had ever sucked him off quite so enthusiastically. It was glorious.

'Fuck.' He panted after a while of being the subject of Sherlock's persistence.

'Fuck Sherlock…..I'm going to….oh fuck….SHERLOCK!'

Sherlock had prepared himself for the inevitable, it was the signal he had been waiting for. He didn't move, he stayed exactly where he was, he was hopelessly turned on, knowing he was the one that had caused John to be in this state. He wanted to taste him. John gave another series of groans before coming hard down Sherlock's throat. He bucked his hips into the heat as Sherlock milked him dry, riding on the waves of pleasure his orgasm ripped through him.

Sherlock swallowed, yes the taste wasn't exactly nice, but John was sweeter the Sherlock imagined, and he didn't want to spit John out, so he swallowed John's seed. Once John got his breath back he pulled Sherlock into his side and the pair cuddled. John holding his close to his chest and planting messy kisses to the top of his head, telling Sherlock how much he loved him and using words like 'wonderful' and 'amazing' Sherlock lay back, his ego preening at John's compliments.

John kissed his lips.

'I love you Sherlock. I love you.'

* * *

><p><strong>Murder and Sex in the same chapter? I'm spoiling you I really am. Next chap is coming to a future near you nut in the meantime review! review! review!<strong>


	15. Slow Show Part One

**This is a repost, there was a fuck ton of mistakes in this the first time I posted, which I wanted to correct, unfortunately I somehow eneded up deleting the original chapter , so I had to put it up all over again. *facedesk* Sorry if anyone got excited. **

**MB**

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* * *

><p><span>Hand on Education. <span>

Chapter 15

Slow Show. 

Part one. 

Even though John knew Sarah was at work, he stilled called out her name as soon as he returned home from work, he walked carefully, checking each room to doubly make sure he was alone in the house, paranoia obviously got the better of him as when he reached the small study at the back of the house, he closed the door and even locked it behind him. Setting down the bag carefully on his desk he pulled out his notebook and riffled through the worn pages. He typed the unfamiliar number into his phone, checking the number again and again to make sure he got it exactly right. He took a deep breath, it was now or never, and hit the green call button. Holding the phone close to his ear John drilled his fingers on the edge of his desk and waited, the ringing sound seemed to go on forever as he waited for the other end to pick up. He huffed in impatience and muttered 'come on' over and over under his breath. Just as he was about to give up and hang up, a cheery voice finally answered him.

'Hello Park Side Hotel how can I help you?'

'Hello' John stammered 'I was, err, wondering if it was possible to err, book a room for next Friday?'

'Okay Sir, let me see if we have any rooms available, would you like a single or double room?'

'Double.' John said perhaps a little too insistently, but if there was one thing John was going to be insistent on, it was getting a double bed. There was a long pause, he heard the unmistakeable sound of clicking computer keys.

'And how long would you like you like to stay for?'

'Till Sunday.' There was another pause. John held his breath and prayed it would all be fine.

'Okay, that's not a problem sir. What name should I book it under?'

'Watson.' John breathed a sigh of relief, giddy with excitement he handed over his credit card details and once the order had all gone through he thanked the receptionist a little over enthusiastically and hung up. He smiled to himself, his lips pulled into a broad grin. He had been planning this for ages and finally it was all coming together. Half term was fast approaching and he had decided to surprise Sherlock. He had a whole week off school, one whole week all to himself. He was so tired of just getting snatches of time here and there to be with him, never ever having enough and he saw the chance of finally getting some quality time to spend together. The plan came to him one day in a Biology lesson, he had called out Sherlock's name when taking the register and there it was, fully formed and ready to go. At first he ignored it, but the plan was just so perfect it would not leave him alone.

He had spent hours trailing the internet, finding the perfect hotel in the perfect location that was in his price range. It took hours of searching and indecision before he finally settled on one. There was so much else to plan as well, what transport they would use, what the would do once they got there, and of course he needed to decide what he would tell Sarah to get him out of Bakerford for a few days. He had decided not to tell Sherlock about the exact details of the trip, preferring to keep it all a surprise, okay he knew the young man was no lover of surprises, but he would certainly love this one. He would wait until the very last minute and reveal all, he couldn't wait to see the look on Sherlock's face. He tried to concentrate on school, Sarah, work,everything, but he was failing miserably. He found he just couldn't concentrate or focus, the trip was taking up everything and he had no brain power left over, he had no time or energy for anything else, not when this was on the horizon. All he could think about was where he would take Sherlock, the things they would do and the places they would see. His mind was planning it all in meticulous detail.

Next was the train tickets, he opened up his laptop and fired up the old internet connection. Bakerford was certainly no hotspot which meant everything ran very, very slowly. Finally connected he clicked onto the National Rail website and ordered two return tickets. Scribbling the times and reference number into his notebook. Again using his own credit card and savings account. He couldn't use the joint account he shared with Sarah as his wife went through each statement every month. Feeling extra cautious he deleted the internet history, just in case. He was getting quite used to being a paranoid wreck now, he seemed to spend longer covering his tracks and lying then he did with Sherlock. When this all started he had no idea it would be so difficult. Most of all it was the guilt, the guilt that ate away at him every day, it was like acid running through him, burning him system and dissolving his bones away. He felt so bad for doing this to Sarah. She was his wife, he loved her, yet he was betraying her in the worst possible way. It was killing him, he couldn't deny it, he was lying in bed each night with a woman he had promised his life to, yet deep down he knew his heart belonged to someone else. He couldn't let go of Sherlock, but he couldn't let go of Sarah either, he loved her, he had so much history with her, he had built a life with her, but then there was Sherlock who was just, well, he was just Sherlock. He adored Sarah but now his heart was being pulled in a completely different direction. His heart had been completely split in two, one half was Sarah's, and the other was Sherlock's. He wished there was two of him, so he could give both Sarah and Sherlock what they wanted. None the less, he felt nothing but complete excitement at the prospect of going away with Sherlock.

Sarah would be home from work soon, so John decided to make dinner, a nice dinner, something fancy, as if he was trying to use food as a way of apologising for what he was about to do. As he chopped and cooked his mind once again went back to the trip, or rather one particular aspect of the trip he had planned. He had booked a double room. Sherlock and he were sharing a double room. Sherlock in a double bed, oh god he could practically taste him. Of course he had a lot planned, but if his younger lover wanted nothing more then to spend all weekend in bed, well, he wasn't exactly going to say no, would he?

'Hey' He was snapped out of that particular day dream by his wife walking through the front door.

'Hi' He replied cheerily as Sarah walked into the kitchen, taking off her bag and coat and slipping her hands round his waist, lightly kissing the nape of his neck.

'Mmmmmm something smells good.'

'What can I say you clearly married a talented cook.' Sarah laughed and then began setting up the table and pouring some wine.

John took a deep breath as he stirred the food, he needed to do this, he needed to do it now, he filled his lungs and tried to strengthen his resolve.

'Listen, I was thinking, since its half term and I have a week off, that I would go back to London for the weekend, see the old gang, is that all right?' He had thought hard trying to find a decent enough excuse, at first he thought of saying he was going to see Harry, but decided against it, no way would Sarah believe he was going to see Harry voluntarily, and besides it was very likely, if all went well, that he was going to come back with a massive smile on his face. Would Sarah believe a few days with Harry would cause him to come back like that?

'Oh.' Sarah replied, her voice low and dejected, staring into her wine glass. 'I thought since you had some time off we could spend some time together, you know, just the two of us.'

John felt his heart drop, another wave of guilt flooded him. Oh god Sarah please, please don't make me feel this way. He felt slightly angry, of course he shouldn't as it was all his fault, he had caused this, no one else, but he couldn't help it, he had been so looking forward to the weekend, and now Sarah was ruining it.

'We can still do something together when I get back. Just the two of us I promise.' he insisted.

Sarah nodded, though still frowning. John tried to go back to the dinner. Though he found he had suddenly lost his appetite.

* * *

><p>'So are you going to tell me where you are planning on taking me?' Sherlock squeezed his thighs and stuck out his bottom lip.<p>

'No.' John laughed, his fingers resting on Sherlock's hips, the younger man straddling him, his long legs framing John as he lay back on Sherlock's single bed. Sherlock had been trying all evening to get out of John where exactly it was they were going. As soon as John had told him to pack a suitcase and clear his schedule for the weekend he had a million questions.

'I don't see what difference it would make if I knew.' Sherlock huffed.

'Well then, if it doesn't make a difference you won't mind not knowing.' John replied causing Sherlock to give a low growl of annoyance.

'I hate surprises.' The younger man wrinkled his nose up as he uttered the words, as if he had smelt something very bad.

'You'll like this one.' John ran his hands up Sherlock's sides making the younger man hum. 'Besides.' He continued 'We are having a few days alone together, it doesn't matter where we go, all that matters is that it's just going to be you and me.'

'If it doesn't matter why can't you tell me?' Sherlock whined.

'Because.' John chuckled. 'I want to see the look on your face when we arrive.'

Sherlock sighed 'Then I shall make sure I have a look of cold indifference just to spite you.'

John laughed again, threading his fingers through Sherlock's, god pouty Sherlock was adorable, like an angry kitten. A fluffy giant ball that was hissing and batting his paws at what was angering him, but far too cute to cause any terror whatsoever.

John hoped this was the end of this particular conversation, but Sherlock remained undefeated.

'You know.' He purred, dropping his voice to make it go all husky and dark, in the way he knew John could not resist. He began rocking his hips backwards and forewords suggestively. 'I'm pretty sure that if you do tell me where we are going, that I can give you something in return.' To emphasise his point he crept his hand behind him, resting his hand between John's legs. John immediately gasped and bucked his hips shamelessly into Sherlock's palm, feeling himself spark and harden into life. John shook his head to regain control of his rapidly evaporating thoughts. He grabbed hold of Sherlock's hips and flipped them over so now he was lying on top of Sherlock.

'Nice try' he growled into Sherlock's ear before crushing his lips to Sherlock's.

'Spoil sport.' Sherlock muttered, but kissed back vigorously.

* * *

><p>'I'm going to miss you you know.' Sarah sighed on the Friday morning when John was set to leave. She was perching on the edge of their bed watching her husband pack quickly.<p>

'I'll miss you to.' John replied, kissing her on the forehead before shoving a pair of socks into his suitcase. She had seen him pack pyjamas, pants, a toothbrush, toiletries, trousers and other things. She had absolutely no idea that carefully tucked away out of sight in his shaving bag, was a couple of foil packets and a long tube. John was hoping that this weekend would be _the_ weekend, the weekend he would finally make Sherlock his.

'Take care of yourself.' Sarah's voice snapped him back to reality.

'I will.' He replied, wrapping himself round Sarah's thin frame.

'I promise when I get back we will spend some time together, just the two of us like I said.' He had no idea how true this particular statement was, but it sounded like something husband John would say, and he needed something, anything, to break the silence.

'Can't wait.' They hugged tightly before John glanced at his watch.

'Better get going. Got a train to catch.'

John kissed Sarah once more, then zipped up his bag and he was out the door without looking back, driving towards Sherlock's house. According to the train tickets they would arrive in the early afternoon. The journey was not terribly long, but they would have to change at Oxford which would result in a rather long wait. His heart once again boiling over with excitement, finally he pulled into Sherlock's street, pulling up in front of his house he was greeted to the familiar sight of a unruly mop of dark curls and a greyhound thin body pacing back and forth, a black bag by his feet.

'Impatient bugger.' John thought fondly. It was good to know Sherlock was just as excited as he was.

* * *

><p>Sherlock paced, he found there was very little to do but pace. His feet stomped all over the over long blades of grass in the front garden, trampling over the weeds that grew in abundance. He hated his front garden, all long grass and weeds, completely unkempt. He knew his neighbours turned their noses up at it, it was an eye sore compared to their neatly trimmed lawns and hedges. Normally he couldn't care less what his neighbours thought of him, except when it came to this. An overgrown garden in the middle of a nice middle class neighbourhood was a clear indication that all was not well, and if there was anything Sherlock wanted, it was people thinking that all was well. He had once tried to fix it himself, but his father had sold his lawnmower off a long time ago when money was tight. Without one of those there was nothing he could do.<p>

He started pacing again, where the hell was John? Okay he wasn't due to for another five minutes but still, he had been standing here for over twenty minutes, if he was early then why wasn't John? It was the first day of their trip alone together. Today with Friday, John was his till Sunday, he couldn't quite believe his luck. Now if only John would just hurry up and get here they could get on with things. His bag lay by his feet, all neatly packed with everything he would need. He told the very small number of people he knew, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Irene, that he was going to visit his brother Mycroft for the weekend. He told his father nothing, he very much doubted the man would even notice he was missing, and if he did would he even care? He would be too drunk to notice. Sherlock shook his head to dispel the thoughts, he didn't want to think of his father, not when he had such a wonderful weekend ahead of him, and it would be a wonderful weekend, even if he didn't know where he was going.

As if to reinforce that thought, right at that moment the familiar sight of John's car came into view. All his worried thoughts disappeared, just flew away as he caught John's beaming face. Sherlock's whole body fizzed with excitement, as soon as John's car stopped in front of him Sherlock flung open the door and climbed into the passenger seat.

'Alright Cinderella.' John smiled as Sherlock kissed his fiercely on the lips. 'Your carriage has arrived.'

'Does that make you my prince charming or fairy godmother?' Sherlock teased.

'Both.' John winked back and they set off. Sherlock settled himself into his seat.

He remembered the first time he had been in this car, being offered a lift home from the cinema all those months ago. He was sitting where Sarah had sat, right in this very seat. He was once again replacing Sarah.

Sherlock made himself comfortable preparing himself for the long haul, but as soon as he got settled John was pulling into a car park.

'Can you get the luggage out?' John asked 'I need to get a ticket.' He stepped out of the car and disappeared from view. Sherlock did as he was told, though he was slightly confused as to why they had parked. John wouldn't have gone to all this trouble if they were just going to stay in Bakerford would he?' Just as he was pulling out John's suitcase he glanced into the distance and saw Bakerford train station. He smiled, realising this was just the start of their journey.

'It was easier to take the train then drive, hope you don't mind.' John's cheerful voice came from behind him.

'Not at all.' Sherlock was glad, the train seemed a much nicer option then being cooped up in a car seat for hours on end. John put the car park ticket in the front window and they set off towards the station. John insisted on walking a few spaces behind Sherlock in case they were seen. Sherlock found he couldn't wait to get to wherever it was they were going so they could walk hand in hand like a normal couple. He wondered what John had told Sarah to explain his absence, but he did not ponder this for long.

Unlike everything else in Bakerford the train was not old and quaint, but rather a brown concrete monstrosity straight out of the sixties. He had never been here before, so it took a while for John to get his bearings, sliding through the glass doors he was immediately greeted by a large sign listing all the departures. His train was the next one, due in ten minutes.

'Wait there' he instructed Sherlock, then looked around.

'Excuse me.' He asked an attendant 'Where do you I collect pre paid tickets?'

'Right over there sir.' The woman pointed to her left. 'Just over there next to the cash machine.'

'Okay. Thank you.' He walked over, put his credit card in and punched the reference number in, the machine whirred into life and John collected the tickets from the draw at the bottom. When he had collected the tickets he had walked back to where Sherlock was standing. He toyed with the tickets then pu them in his wallet, this was happening, this was really happening. He found Sherlock with his arms folded, staring up at the screen listing all the departures. Bakerford only had two platforms, so had only two destinations on the board. Sherlock had a 50/50 chance of getting it right.

'Oxford.' He concluded. 'You are taking me to Oxford.' Sherlock was fine with that, he could do Oxford, he would like Oxford, unless he walked into his brother of course.

'Not quite. We're going to Oxford, but only to change trains.' he explained, then led them out the door to Platform One, a pouting Sherlock following closely behind, angry that their destination still remained elusive.

Bakerford was such a tiny, out of the way little place that there seemed no direct trains anywhere. Every train went to the nearest major train station where passengers would grumble and depart to find the train that would actually take them to where they wanted to go. It seemed the only place Bakeford trains went to, was Oxford.

Platform One was completely deserted, only John and Sherlock were waiting to get on board, they were the only sign of life. Sherlock wished everyone would follow this example and just completely disappear leaving only him and John. Even Sarah. Especially Sarah. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his boyfriends strong chest.

'Thank you.' Sherlock murmured. 'I have no idea where we are going, but thank you.'

John felt happiness settle in his chest. 'I love you.' He meant it with all of his heart, taking Sherlock far away from Bakerford made him feel happy indeed.

Sherlock was just about to say 'I love you' back, but was rudely interrupted by the arrival of their train. When they found their carriage it was, like the platform, virtually empty. A couple sat at the opposite end and completely ignored them. The train was only just departing when John pulled him into a deep snog. The familiar scent, feel and taste of John washed over him once again played out on his lips and tongue. Sherlock felt the train pull away, he may not know where he was heading, but whereever it was it was bound to be better then here. He would certainly not miss Bakerford.

All the way to Oxford they kissed, Sherlock enjoying finally having John all to himself. There was nothing he wanted to do but kiss, to hold John close and to nibble, lick and explore him. They lost themselves in each other, only pausing to show the ticket inspector their tickets, when they stopped kissing Sherlock slid his legs through John's and rested his head on John's shoulder, quite content just to snuggle into John's neck and just watch the English countryside speed past the window. England could be so pretty in the sunshine Sherlock mused to himself as he watched the green fields and tiny villages speed past.

For the first time in a long time John felt like he could breathe. Every worry and care had just evaporated, he had left it all behind in Bakerford and now he could finally take a great lungful of air into his lungs. His chest was no longer crushed by the weight of Sarah and guilt. He could just relax and enjoy himself. All he had was Sherlock, all he wanted was Sherlock, all he needed was Sherlock. He celebrated this festival of Sherlock by doing the one thing he loved doing more then anything else. He kissed him again.

They were so engrossed in each other that the pair didn't notice they had arrived in Oxford till the train came to a screeching halt.

'Why have we stopped?' John asked dumbly.

'Looks like we are here.'

They got off the train and headed for the nearest coffee shop, grabbing a table right in the corner out of the way of everyone.

'Our train is due in about half an hour.' John made a show of checking his watch.

When Sherlock got back from the loo John had already bought coffee. He handed over a mug of the steaming black stuff over to his love. Sherlock took a long sip, the hot liquid burning his tongue in a surprisingly pleasant way. Black two sugars. Perfect.

A comfortable silence fell over them as they drank their coffee before John spoke again.

'I need to talk you about something.' He said in a serious tone.

'Shoot.' Sherlock said looking over his coffee.

'Well, I, err.' John coughed 'I booked a double room, and I was wondering, if you wanted to that is, well, I dunno, I want to, but I want you to want to.' John stammered, stumbling over his words and just generally sounding like a complete pillock. He felt his cheeks burn red. For god's sake he was a thirty five year old man, why was this so difficult?

'Are you asking me If I want to have sex?' Sherlock stated in his usual matter of fact manner.

John felt a little hot under the collar. It must have been the coffee shop, it was so warm, why was it so warm in here?

'Yes Sherlock. That is what I am asking.' John nodded, strangely glad they were no beating round the proverbial bush.

'Why are you even asking?' Sherlock asked quizzically 'You know if it were up to me we would have already done it by now.'

John thought for a few moments before replying 'I think it's more for my benefit then yours. I need to know it's what you want. I know you love me but it is a massive step. I want to be sure I'm not pushing you into anything.'

'You're not.' Sherlock interrupted. 'I want this.'

'I know how you feel, I was exactly the same, just wanting to get my first time out of the way.' John reached over and cupped Sherlock's cheek with his palm, running his thumb along Sherlock's bottom lip. 'I know you hate it, but your virginity is precious, I don't want you to just give it to me, I want to earn it.'

Sherlock was about to make a joke about John being sentimental and ridiculous, but John was being so earnest he found he didn't quite have the heart. Instead he sat in silence, John took his hand away and they went back to drinking in silence. Sherlock let John's words sink in.

'It's going to hurt isn't it?' He looked out the window so he didn't have to meet John's gaze.

'Yeah Sherlock. Yeah it will.'

Johm had done so much for him, to him, sometimes it felt like the only thing left was to be penetrated. Would it be tonight? Would he be sitting in a coffee shop this time tomorrow having been completely invaded the night before? Then there was the pain, or rather the thought of pain. Of course being penetrated anally was going to bloody well hurt. Would he bleed? Would he cry? Would he beg John to stop? Would that make John angry? Upset? Of course he would be. He had spent all this money on trains and hotels, planned a big surprise for him, of course he would be angry if Sherlock couldn't give him a bit of sex in return. He really wanted to shag John, had wanted to for months, but what if he was just no good? What if he let John down? John wouldn't show it, he would be his usual sweet and kind self, he would tell him it was all fine and wrap words around him like cotton wool, but that wouldn't mask the disappointment. He would know how John really felt. Of course he would know.

By the time they had finished their coffee and found the right platform the train was already waiting for them.

'Are we changing trains again?' Sherlock asked as he was guided to his seat by John.

'No. This is the last one.' Unlike the carriage they had boarded on at Bakerford this train was heaving, filled to the brim with businessmen in smart suits, families, students and couples. Sherlock threaded his hand through John's and squeezed. John squeezed back in a reassuring gesture then kissed Sherlock on the lips. He mentioned something, but it was lost in the babble of noise made by the other passengers. Sherlock looked around once more, wherever they were going was certainly popular. Suddenly there was a crackle as a tannoy overhead was switched on.

'Hello and welcome to this direct service from Oxford to London. Calling at…..'

The announcer continued speaking but Sherlock was no longer listening. London. He was going to London. _London_. He had never been to London, heck he had never really been out of Bakerford. He had been longing to go to London for so long now, to see the city with his own eyes, he was so desperate to visit. His schoolboy fantasies of solving crime and running through its streets made him yearn for the city he wanted so badly to call home, and now he was actually going. He felt the train pull away from the station. He turned to face open, his mouth opened wide.

'I wanted to take you home.' John explained. Sherlock said nothing, instead he flung his arms around John and kissed his as hard as he could, letting his mouth and tongue do all the thanking. All the way to London he was either kissing John or acting like an over excited toddler. He kept asking how much further over and over again, to the great annoyance of all the other passengers, he bounced up and down in his seat, he chatted about all the things he wanted to do and complained loudly that this train was too slow, something the five year old that was sat in front of them thoroughly agreed with. John beamed he should be annoyed but he wasn't, he was just happy he could expel this type of reaction from Sherlock.

Because no one they knew would see them together and they could do whatever they liked, Sherlock had free reign over John. He noticed Sherlock was being very affectionate, perhaps overly so. He kissed and cuddled him far more then previous partners ever did. John guessed that it was due to being so starved of affectionate for such a long time and years of putting up a wall to the world, now that someone had finally come along who wanted to love him he didn't want to let go. Sherlock was like a child in a sweet shop, clearly making up for lost time. John didn't mind, he didn't mind at all.

When they reached Kings Cross Sherlock almost leapt from the train onto the platform. The flourish in which he got off the train caused a few disgruntled passengers to tell him to mind where he was going, he spat his tongue out at one of them as she tutted under her breath and walked away. The first thing that struck him was just how noisy the station was, there were so many people passing by. It was so full of life it made his head spin. People continued to cross his path. Woman, three cats and a drinking problem. Another woman, affair. Man, keen fisherman, domestic violence.

'This way' he followed John down the station towards the exit. Sherlock wanted immediately to go into the streets of London, but instead John led him to the underground.

'For you.' He was given an old Oyster card, clearly had a previous owner. Maybe Sarah. 'There is already enough money on it to get to our hotel, we can top them up later.' John already had his ready and the pair set off into the noisy heat. John knew London like the back of his hand, he didn't even need to glance at the map. Sherlock wasn't exactly enjoying his first experience of the underground, he was squished to the edge by all the people and he felt incredibly claustrophobic. He didn't like the way he had to fight to get on the train, and he clung to John for dear life. Luckily it was quick, and soon they were getting off. Earls court station was thankfully much less crowded then Kings Cross.

Coming out of the station Sherlock caught his first glimpse of London. He marvelled at it, he marvelled at the architecture and the sheer amount of people. He marvelled at the traffic. 'There is so much traffic John!' he squealed, Bakerford was usually silent as the grave but this, this was noisy, filled with energy and movement. The buildings towered over him as they carried on walking down the streets, taking twice as long as John anticipated because Sherlock kept insisting on stopping, finally they reached the hotel and John breathed a sigh of relief, they had finally made it.

The hotels decors was smart and modern, it was also the perfect size. Small enough to still have soul and charm, but big enough so they didn't feel suffocated by the staff. A pretty young woman checked them in then showed them to their room. She and Sherlock immediately hit it off, Sherlock explained it was his first time in London, causing her to coo over him like a newborn child. She kept making faces at him and fluttering her long eyelashes in a way John did not like at all. John slipped his arm round Sherlock possessively and hoped she got the message.

As soon as they found their room Sherlock flung his bag down on the bed, glad to be rid of the weight. The bed itself was huge, even with two of them sleeping in it they would still have enough room to stretch out, the way the bag had bounced indicated the mattress was fairly new, soft but bouncy, no sagging springs here. The thick, white duvet was covered by big fluffy pillows, Sherlock couldn't wait to sink his head into them. He felt slightly self conscious, knowing that this was the bed he was going to loose his virginity on. The room also had a en-suite, complete with both a bath and a shower, there was a desk, two chairs and a big built in wardrobe. It was big, yet still felt homely and inviting. They were going to be very happy here over the next few days. John clearly had fine taste in hotels.

The time was on early afternoon, so the still had most of the day ahead of them. The weather was fine and the sun shone brightly in the sky.

'Want to go explore?' John asked and Sherlock nodded vigorously. 'Come on then, I want to show you my city.'

Hours later the air had cooled around them, the sun sitting low in the sky. By this time Sherlock was in love, deeply in love, with London. When they left the hotel John took him to see Big Ben and the houses of parliament, and then they just started walking. They walked and walked and walked. All over the city centre, John knew the city so well he always knew exactly where they were, and he thoroughly enjoyed being an unofficial tour guide. As they walked along Birdcage walk Sherlock decided he never wanted to be anywhere else. He was falling more and more in love with each step. John to, loved being back, like Sherlock he felt this was his home. He also loved having Sherlock on his arm, the young man was earning looks and wolf whistles wherever they went. John felt so smug that these people wanted Sherlock, but he was the one who had him.

They had dinner in a favourite old restaurant of John's, it was a bit off the beaten track so was full of locals. The food was delicious, very fancy and assaulted his taste buds. Sherlock was never one for food, it slowed him down, but tonight he made an exception. John wanted to buy him dinner and he was actually a little peckish what with all the walking. It was all candlelit and romantic, something Sherlock would usually sneer at, but he was in London, with John, so his mood was high, and John looked so good in candlelight, he marvelled at the way it lit up his face and how the tiny flames danced against his skin. John also bought dessert, he found the way Sherlock ate the chocolate cake completely sinful. The way he made little mewing noises as he took each bite, the way his tongue would lick a stray bit of icing off. It all went straight to his cock. Sherlock had quickly decided this was the best day of his life, no matter what happened tonight, he would always look at this day with fondness.

It was dark when they left. Sherlock braved the underground once more and they headed back to the hotel. They took the lift to their room. The tension between them was palpable; it was almost threatening to devour them whole. John fiddled with the front door key but found each time he swiped it the door would buzz and flash red. He was almost at the point of swearing at it when Sherlock stepped in.

'It's not working because your hand is shaking.'

'I can't help it I'm nervous.' John snapped at him. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

'You're nervous?' He stated in a 'shouldn't that be me?' tone.

John laughed nervously. Sherlock took the key off him and slotted it into the lock, the door opened at once and he stepped inside, John followed a few minutes later, walking into the stillness of the room, following Sherlock into the unknown.


	16. Slow Show Part Two

**If any of you fancy a cheap thrill may I suggest writing porn in a public library? Its an experience believe me. **

**Anyway this is the last chap of 'fluff' there is a lot of plot coming so enjoy this little bit of quiet before the storm. In the meantime hugs and jelly tots to the lot of you. **

**MB**

**XXXXXXXXXXXXX**

* * *

><p><strong><span>Hands On Education.<span>**

**Chapter Sixteen.**

**Slow Show Part Two.**

As soon as Sherlock walked into the room he immediately began to wonder what exactly it was he was supposed to do next. He was completely unsure how to go about this. How did one go from this, which was being fully dressed standing in a hotel room, to there, which was lying on his back with John shagging him, without his first time turning into a total farce? He remembered back to the first time John had sucked him off, he recalled the journey which started with light kisses on the sofa and ended with him naked in the guest bedroom with Johns lips tightly wrapped around his hard cock. He realised that you could not rush these things, you had to play the human body, cover it with touches and work it up till it was in a frenzy of want. The idea of sex seemed unappealing to his for so long because he simply thought about the logistics of such things, he had no idea, never really understood, what it felt like to be so turned on that you ached, positively begged to be touched like that.

Sherlock kicked off his shoes and jacket, that seemed like a good place to start and watched John do the same. They pulled out their suitcases and unpacked pyjamas, toothbrushes and other necessities.

'I'm just going to go have a shower, that okay?' John said breaking the uncomfortable silence, taking his pyjamas and wash bag into the bathroom.

'I'll have one when you're done.' Sherlock replied. He felt a little grimy after a days travelling and hours of exploring London. A nice, hot shower was incredibly inviting.

'Okay, I'll try not to use up all the hot water.' John tried to joke but it fell completely flat, both too full of nerves and apprehension to really be in a joking mood.

Sherlock's whole brain was filled with tension and nerves and he wondered if John felt the same way to. He heard the sound of running water and tried to busy himself by sorting out everything he would need for tonight. He unfolded his new pyjamas, so new in fact he had to pull the label off them. As soon as John told him they were going away he immediately went out and bought new ones, so ashamed was he by his old tatty ones. A simple white tee and pyjama trousers, just like John's except that the bottoms of John's ones were grey, his were a blue and white check. He toyed with his shampoo bottle as he waited. It was especially designed for curly hair. He knew John would tease him mercifully later on for the vanity. John was very old school when it came to these things. Occasionally he would put a bit of product in his hair but that was about it. He had a very high standard of personal hygiene, but he didn't understand all the lotions and potions that were available, still seeing that as very much a women's world.

He began to picture John in the shower, hot water cascading over toned muscle. He thought of steam rising and John massaging bare skin. Skin that would soon be making love to him. There was a low groaning noise as the shower was switched off announcing John had finished. Soon, it would be so soon. His heart began to hammer away in his ribcage as the event drew near. When John came out of the bathroom, his pyjamas on, his face flushed pink and hair sticking out at all ends with a towel draped over his shoulders, Sherlock could not help but find him strangely sexy, the way he just stood there, the very picture of domestic. He didn't know why but seeing John wearing pyjamas, being wet and looking very much at home had this strange effect on him. He couldn't help but smile and stride over to where John was standing, pressing their lips together and running his hands through John's damp hair. The kiss was sweet and slow, their tongues running along against each other as their mouths locked together. John had slipped his hands round Sherlock's waist, and when a hand slipped downwards and squeezed his arse, Sherlock felt the first prick of desire.

'Better go have my shower.' Sherlock whispered. John gave a low grunt of protest and pulled his tightly against him. He kissed him, a little more fiercely this time, before letting go.

Sherlock collected his things and tried to walk to the bathroom as casually as he could, he closed the bathroom door behind him and immediately turned on the shower. Hoping the sound of the water would cover just how quickly and loudly his heart seemed to be beating. He stared at himself for a few minutes in the mirror, taking in his utterly blank expression before climbing in. The changes in temperature making him flinch as he took a few moments to adjust to the heat. He reached for his own cheap bar of soap when out of the corner of his eye he noticed Johns own bottle of shower gel and decided to use that instead, He covered his skin with the slippery liquid and immersed himself in the familiar masculine odour. He scrubbed his skin again and again, hoping to wash away more then just dirt, he hoped to rub away any traces of the pain and hurt he felt inside. He needed to remove all traces of his father from his skin. He needed to be pure for his lover. John wouldn't want him broken, dirty, damaged. While the suds from the soap washed away he set about massaging shampoo into his hair with extreme dedication. John made no secret of his love for Sherlock's dark curls, so he paid far more time and attention washing them now then he had ever done so before. He allowed himself a few minutes just to soak himself before turning the shower off, he grabbed a towel and dried himself. Then he put his pyjamas on and towel dried his hair, then running a comb through the unruly locks. He squeezed some toothpaste onto his toothbrush and cleaned his teeth roughly then, using his palm as a makeshift cup, he rinsed his mouth out. He was unable to prolong this any longer, he stared at himself one more time in the mirror then set his toothbrush right beside John's, before stepping out of the bathroom.

He found John sitting on the bed, twiddling his thumbs in a nervous gesture. He had been sitting directly in front of the bathroom door, so as soon as Sherlock opened it their gazes met. John offered him a weak smile before getting up off the bed and pulling Sherlock into a hug, lightly kissing his neck. Sherlock looked over the room. It was entirely dark except for a few bunches of tea lights that were dotted about, casting the room in a warm glow. They were not there before Sherlock had his shower. John obviously had bought them in an attempt to make it more romantic. On the nightstand were a small, square foil packet, red, the words 'feather light' scrawled over the top, obviously containing a condom, and two bottles, the labels facing away from him, so he wasn't sure what they were, though he guessed one was most certainly a lubricant of some description, as if Sherlock needed any more proof this was really happening.

Sherlock closed his eyes and turned his head away, he savoured the feel of John's lips on his neck, and he hummed softly.

'I love you.' He murmured softly to John.

'I know. I know love. Now please, lie on the bed.'

Sherlock swallowed his nerves and did as John asked. The bed was soft, yet sturdy underneath him. Supporting all of his weight yet still giving him the feeling that he was lying on a cloud. He could lie here forever, completely encased in warmth and comfort.

John lay on top of him, kissing him lightly on the lips.

'Ready?'

Despite feeling sick with worry Sherlock nodded. John cupped his cheek and pressed their lips together once more. John brushed his tongue against Sherlock's bottom lip, asking for entrance. Sherlock giving it to him and savouring the texture and feel of John's tongue. Moving together as they had done so many times before, yet still felt thrilling and exciting. He would never get bored of having John's tongue in his mouth. When John pulled away he didn't go back to his neck, which Sherlock had expected, instead he kissed along Sherlock's jaw line then up to his cheeks and forehead, and he buried his head in Sherlock's hair.

'I'll never hurt you, I promise.' He spoke defiantly. Sherlock knew that this was true. John would never hurt him, of course he wouldn't, of this Sherlock was certain.

Next he felt John's hands slip underneath his pyjama top, strong hands roaming him chest. His skin immediately responding to John's touch, feeling very warm and electric as soon as John's hands passed over it. The older man lifted up the pyjama top up over Sherlock's belly, running the fabric up his thin body and kissing the expanse of pale skin it exposed. Sherlock lifted up his arms allowing John to remove the garment altogether, throwing it on the floor carelessly. As soon as the top was off John assaulted his nipples, running his tongue over and toying with them between his finger until they were hardened nubs, making Sherlock catch his breath for a few moments. He gasped and felt his stomach muscles involuntarily contract sharply whenever John sucked a little too hard. John ran his hands over Sherlock's sides and continued pressing light, intimate kisses to his chest.

'So bloody beautiful.' Sherlock heard John whisper. Sherlock wished he could say something back, yet his mouth had gone so completely dry at this point he very much doubted he could form words even if his life depended on it.

He felt John's hand slide into the waistband of his pyjama bottoms, sliding them down his skinny legs till they pooled round his ankles before being removed altogether. Again he kissed along the pale skin that was revealed to him, inch by inch. There was yet more porcelain skin that he wanted to mark and claim as his own. He nuzzled into the soft skin of Sherlock's inner thighs, smelling the unmistakeable scent of arousal that had become trapped in Sherlock's boxers. He discarded his own pyjamas into some unknown corner of the room, like Sherlock he was left in just his underwear.

He felt Sherlock wrap himself around him, their erections nuzzling together, as he reached over and picked up one of the bottles from the beside table.

'Lie still.' He instructed, kissing the side of his head softly. Sherlock lay back in the middle of the bed, watching intently as John poured oily liquid onto his hand, rubbing his palms together till it dissolved. A fruity scent filled the room.

Sherlock closed his eyes and hummed contentedly as John began to massage him, his hands caressing and exploring everywhere, sliding his boxers down to reveal his burgeoning hardness. John planted a few kisses to Sherlock's erection, then rolled him onto his front, positioning himself between Sherlock's legs and he rubbed the oil into his younger lovers back and calf muscles, covering Sherlock's body with his touch. Sherlock felt his breath hitch and his body reaction dramatically to John's movements, every cell felt like it was on fire, every fibre of his being revelled in John. His brain had clouded over, was too full of John's touch and John's scent to be able to focus on anything else.

Sherlock felt John manoeuvre himself down on the bed till his head had aligned with his hips, he felt a strong hand grip his hip and then a few peppered kisses to his buttocks. A feeling of coldness his entrance as his cheeks were delicately pulled apart, he felt himself forget how to breathe. He then expected to feel something hard, to maybe feel a few fingers toy with his most private of places, he certainly did not expect to feel something incredibly soft, warm and wet. The shock of feeling it gave him caused him to jerk forward away from John, but the older man immediately grabbed his hips and pulled him back onto his tongue. He rolled the muscle over his entrance, circling round and then probing inside the puckered entrance. Feeling the younger man moan and writhe beneath him.

Once Sherlock had gotten over the realisation that John's tongue was, well, there, he quickly abandoned himself to the strength of feeling, he groaned and writhed on the bed, fisting the sheets with his hands and even pushing himself down onto John, trying to get more of his tongue as he swirled and licked. Sherlock's cock was by now leaking pre-cum at an alarming rate under John's relentless tongue, he was on the verge of rutting against the sheets so desperate was he for friction. He felt John stop and move away, Sherlock lay panting, trying desperately to get his breath back. He turned his head around to see John grab the lube bottle and place it on the bed next to him. He could see the outline of John's erection through his boxer shorts, he looked painfully hard, and Sherlock hadn't even touched him yet. He removed his boxers, revealing his glistening member in all its glory and reached for the foil packet.

'I'm going to put this on now.' He explained 'Before my hands get so covered in lube I won't be able to open it.'

Sherlock watched John's shaking hands tare the packet open and expertly rolled the condom down over himself. His voice sounded slightly cracked, and his hands still shook, Sherlock couldn't believe it, was his brave John really as nervous as he was? It seemed so. Lube in hand John shuffled down the bed so he was on his side behind Sherlock, the pair slotting together like two spoons, John applying gentle kisses to the nape of his neck.

'Relax, you have to relax love.'

Sherlock tried, but he couldn't control his breathing, or how his body seized up with tension. John's right hand sneaked over and gripped Sherlock's erection firmly.

'Deep breaths.' John whispered. Sherlock felt John's hand between his cheeks, the sound of a cap being flicked open and then a warm gel being applied to the area, circling him, applying far more then was actually needed. John pulling away, though his other hand still remained on Sherlock's hardness, a few more strokes and then that hand went to. John applying lube to his fingers. There was the cap being flicked closed and then silence. Sherlock's heart would not sit still, he tried to focus on his breathing, taking deep breaths of air, to relax, to prepare for what was to come. He felt John's mouth on his neck again, then his fingers, what felt like a little finger and a thumb separated him, a middle finger circling his entrance before slipping inside into his tightness. Sherlock gasped and then screwed his face up at the intrusion. He felt his body clench around John's finger as the older man began to gently rock it back and forth. It didn't hurt exactly, but it didn't feel good either. The alien feeling of something penetrating him felt incredibly strange, he couldn't get used to the feeling of someone moving inside of him. He felt the burn of another finger being added, then the strangeness of the fingers working together, opening him up in a scissoring motion. John slipped a leg through Sherlock's thighs to gain better access, Sherlock felt nauseous as the fingers slipped deeper into him. He was riding a wave of something that was neither pleasure nor pain, it was just an uncomfortable oddness. The hand on his cock was pumping slowly, flicking a thumb over the tip in a desperate attempt to hold onto a hardness that was quickly disappearing.

Just as Sherlock was about to conclude that there was no pleasure in this whatsoever, he felt John's fingers brush up against something, a spark of pure pleasure immediately ran through him and he felt his whole body spasm, he let out a guttural groan as John circled his fingers and once again applied pressure to this hidden spot. John expertly used his fingers inside Sherlock, playing this secret part of himself that he had no idea even existed. His body seemed to open up, the tension float away as Sherlock's body was adjusting itself comfortably on John's fingers. A third was added and John carried on stimulating him massaging inside of Sherlock till he was a moaning, writhing wreck. The hand pumping on his cock speeded up and suddenly Sherlock went into overload.

'Oh god John.' He groaned, grabbing hold of John's sides and pulling him against him, desperate for more. He rocked his hips back and forth, shamelessly fucking himself on John's fingers. It all felt so good, the hand on his cock, the fingers, it was too good in fact, He felt his stomach muscles contract and the little prick of orgasm begin to form deep inside of him. He felt the bud of pressure, the warm pressure building and building as it ripped through him. He reached his hand around, cupping John's cheeks and crashed their lips together.

'You gonna cum for me?' John groaned, clearly as helpless as Sherlock was to the ecstasy that was forming between them. Sherlock nodded his head vigorously.

'Don't stop.' He panted. Then he surrendered into the sea of completion. He saw stars for a moment, screaming John's name as he erupted in a fountain of white. John's hands continued to pump him as hot ejaculate covered his hand. Milking Sherlock completely dry and kissing his through the aftershocks, till he was a totally spent force lying on the bed.

When he came down from the high and came back to his senses he found that John was kissing him, lying on top of him in a position they had both grown accustomed to, they had been like this so many times before. Feeling John's hardness against his leg he took John's sex in his hands, stroking gently, wanting so desperately to please him.

'Do you feel that?' John groaned. 'Do you feel how hard I am? You do that to me, you do that to me everyday.' Sherlock responded by flicking his tongue inside John's mouth and giving his member a tight squeeze, He felt suddenly invigorated, a burst of energy from no where took over him.

'I feel it.'

John closed his eyes and groaned as Sherlock continued lavishing attention on his hard cock. He licked bare patch of skin just underneath Sherlock's ear.

'Please Sherlock. Please let me fuck you.' He moaned, his eyes half closed. Sherlock felt an urge to get up off the bed and run, but he swallowed his nerves and nodded. Again the worry clawed at him and again he tried to ignore it. The time had come to loose his virginity. He could do this, he had solved murder cases, of course he could do this, and this was John. John! The man he had given his heart to, the man who had promised to never hurt him. He could do this, he would do this, for John, only ever for John.

'How do you want me?' John was the experienced one, so Sherlock thought it best to let him decide the position.

'Hands and knees would be easiest, but I want you on your back. I want to see your face' John kissed his lips lovingly. 'Please love.'

Sherlock positioned himself in the centre of the bed. John kissed him again a sweet, loving kiss. Murmuring gentle words into Sherlock's ear he took one of the pillows and tucked it under Sherlock's hips, then positioned himself once more between his younger lovers legs. Taking the lube bottle he slicked himself up, his cock, which was painfully hard right now, was grateful to finally receive some contact.

He looked down at his aching hardness almost apologetically, he was big, there was no getting away from it, and now he would somehow have to fit it into Sherlock's thin body. He gently gripped Sherlock's ankles, pulling them up till they were resting on his shoulders, he lowered himself down a little so he could kiss his lover once more, folding Sherlock's body over itself. He wrapped his hand around his erection then manoeuvred himself into place, so that his straining member was directly in front of Sherlock's entrance. He kissed Sherlock along the ankle then, as gently as he possibly could, he pushed into his lover's tight heat. He immediately gave a loud gasp and shut his eyes tightly as he felt Sherlock's walls clamp around him. He was tight. God he was so incredibly tight. Sherlock was so warm as he entered him, little by little, inch by inch, as slowly as he could. Still wet from a mixture of his own tongue and the lubricant. He felt Sherlock's body fight him, the walls pushing against him. He soon found himself buried inside him, right up to the hilt. God it was so good, it was better then anything he could have imagined, and he had spent a long time imagining.

Shutting his eyes he lost himself in the sensation of being deep inside his pupil. So lost was he in the sensation, in the tight warmth, that he did not notice the student was in distress till he opened his eyes again and met his gaze. Sherlock was biting down so hard on his bottom lip John was worried he would draw blood, he was panting heavily and kept letting out a low whimpering sound. John bent down and littered his face with soft kisses.

'I'm sorry. I'm so sorry love. It will get better, it will stop hurting in a moment, I promise trust me, you have to trust me.'

As soon as John began to enter him Sherlock had felt a sharp burning sensation, it had grown stronger and stronger the deeper John got. He screwed his eyes shut and pulled John closer as he tried not to focus on the pain of being invaded, his body being forced apart by the older man. Once John had entered him fully he stopped, clearly waiting for Sherlock's body to adjust. There was no sound but heavy breathing as Sherlock tried to settle onto the feeling of impalement, John occasionally planting kisses to his temple.

Slowly the immediate pain began to lessen, the sharp burning sensation softened as his walls stretched and adjusted themselves around John. The pain gradually began to ebb away, leaving Sherlock with just the knowledge that John was inside of him. Actually inside of him! It thrilled him to know that John was buried deep with him, that they were now one body, as close as it was for two people to possibly be. He felt his heart begin to beat in time with John's.

'How do I feel?' He whispered. John exhaled loudly then laughed.

'You feel like fucking heaven Sherlock.' Both men smiled, and then Sherlock caressed John's lips with his own.

'Move.' He instructed to John.

'Are you sure?'

'Very.'

John pulled himself out then pushed back in. Sherlock hissed as the burn once again returned, but he found that it evaporated on the second one of John's hard thrusts. His body, which at first had rejected John's intrusion, was now pulling him deeper, wanting more of him, John pounded into his slender waist, suddenly changing angles and he felt John's hard cock hit that sweet spot inside him once more. The headboard of the bed began to bang against the wall as John fucked him, hard and sweet. He closed his eyes as he felt John's sex moving inside him, taking him completely apart. He gasped and groaned at the sweet bliss that was now coursing through him as they rocked together. He had grown hard once again, John took his leaking prick between his fingers, jerking him off in time with his thrusts. Sherlock felt John's movements grow increasingly violent and erratic, he was close.

'I want you to cum. I want you to cum inside me.' Sherlock moaned. John gave his cock another tight squeeze.

'Together.'

He pulled at Sherlock's pulsing member till once again he felt an orgasm form. John continued his movements till once again his younger lover cried out, his name on his lips, and came over his chest. A few more thrusts and John followed, burying his head into Sherlock's soft neck as he emptied his seed into his love. The waves of orgasm hitting him over and over again as Sherlock's tight body milked him completely dry.

They stayed entirely still for a few moments, recovering from the high of completion, before pulling out, he disposed of the condom I a nearby bin then collapsed back onto the bed, curling himself round Sherlock as they lay there breathing heavily.

'That was amazing.' John exclaimed finally, after he had recovered the power of speech.

'I'm glad I was not a disappointment.'

'You could never have disappointed me.' John replied, caressing Sherlock's cheek tenderly. Sherlock found he had grown quite tired, his arse ached and his limbs felt like they were made of stone, all the energy from before had left him, he yawned loudly before burying his head in a pillow.

After a while John, still naked, got up and went to the bathroom, he turned on the taps and began filling up the bath with hot water, when the tub was full he turned the taps off and poured some of the hotels complementary bubble bath into the clear liquid, swirling the water about with his hands till a layer of froth formed. He went back into the bedroom and switched on a lamp, then blew out the remaining candles which had not yet burnt themselves out. He hauled a naked Sherlock into his arms the carried his across the room before gently placing him in the bath, he squeezed some shower gel on a sponge and set about washing him. The strenuous sex they had just had had formed a layer of sweat on both of them, something John was keen to remove. HE flinched when he saw a faint line of red emerge from Sherlock, it curled inside the water then dissolved, disappearing from sight. John sighed, and then carried on gently scrubbing.

'Join me.' Sherlock suggested, John told him to budge up and then climbed in behind him. They stayed there till there till the water turned cold and their skin had pruned. Once they got out they dried themselves off and wrapped themselves in the fluffy white dressing gowns the hotel had provided them with. John found a spare set of sheets tucked inside the wardrobe and he set about changing the bed, once that was done they climbed in beneath the covers and held each other tightly. Love declared they turned off the lamp so that the only source of light came from the moon and the streetlights below, and settled into a deep sleep.

* * *

><p>John awoke that morning to a low buzzing coming from his phone, he checked the ID and saw Sarah's name lit up on the screen. He ignored it, letting it just ring out. The sound must have woken Sherlock up to because when John turned around the younger man was yawning and rubbing his eyes sleepily.<p>

'Did you sleep well?' John asked his voice low and croaky.

'Mmmmmmmmmmm.' Sherlock hummed in reply.

'How do you feel?' John pulled Sherlock into his arms and nuzzled his neck.

'I feel odd.' Sherlock said after a long pause.

'Are you in pain?' John was concerned, he knew Sherlock would still be aching and sore from last night, but he couldn't bare the thought that he had done anything more permanent.

'No.' Sherlock shook his head. 'Nothing like that.' He pointed a long and slender finger to his temple. 'It's up here. I can't describe it, all I can tell you is that it is odd.'

John nodded, taking Sherlock's words. 'Don't worry that's normal, everyone feels like that after they have had sex for the first time.'

Despite having slept till late in the morning neither was in any hurry to get up. They lounged in bed, savouring the feel of naked flesh, they kissed lazily, chatting away casually in that easy way they had always possessed even before they were lovers, even before they were friends. Once they got up and dressed they walked to a nearby café and had lunch, afterwards they explored London once more. It was an incredibly hot, bright day so they strolled around Regents Park, then once more around the centre of the capital. Sherlock explored, foraged about in this strange new world. It made his head spin and his mind race. The 'odd' feeling he had woken up with had not left him yet, he felt different, he felt like he was finally part of the human race. As he passed people, or people passed him, he kept wondering if, somehow, they new that he had had sex the night before. He met the gaze of a woman who was chatting away to John, did she see the way he moved with a slight limp? Was she aware that the man she was so innocently asking for directions had just fucked him hard the night before? That in some way everyone could tell, as if he was wearing a sign. He yearned to have John inside him once more, John had truly been a part of him and he yearned to have that feeling back.

They made love again that night upon returning home to the hotel. The sun had gone down, the city now fizzled and cracked with a new type of life. The food of yet another restaurant in their bellies. The room was hot and stuffy; John immediately opened a window and then took Sherlock once again. Fucking him hard into sweet oblivion as the cool air wafted in through the window. Moving inside the younger man as if he was always meant to be there, revelling in the carnal pleasures, both savouring the base joys of life.

Too soon morning came. Too soon the idyllic world they had created had come to an end. Too soon it was time to check out and catch the train back to Bakerford. They casually reminisced of their time spent in the city on the train ride home, arranging when to see each other next, silence, and then it was back to where it all began.

Sherlock strolled through his bedroom door that Sunday evening to find everything exactly as he had left it. Just as he had suspected his father mentioned nothing of his absence over the past few days, he had probably not even realised he was gone.

'This letter came for you.' His father spoke gruffly handing over a brown envelope. Oxford University marked clearly on the front. He had not yet told John he had applied. He had told no one, only the schools head, who had been in charge of his application had any idea of his plans. He opened the letter with trembling fingers and read the contents. He learnt he had an interview with them later that month, and if that went well and he got the right grades, a place for him was all but guaranteed.

This was the first step in leaving Bakerford. If this were a year ago he would have leapt for joy, but now the word 'John' kept lighting up in his brain, he felt sick at the prospect of leaving him.

His ears felt deafened by the sound of the outside world, calling to him to join it and to leave Bakerford far, far behind.


	17. Escape the Nest

**This chapter was really really hard to write, I'm not sure I pulled it off but I hope it's not awful. **

**Warnings for bucket load of angst and a very sweary and BAMF! John Watson. **

* * *

><p><span>Hands on Education.<span>

Chapter Seventeen.

Escape the Nest.

It was Tuesday night, the night the rain finally fell. Sherlock heard it hammering loudly against his bedroom window, tiny droplets coming in droves to shower the quiet, empty streets. To clean away the dirt and grime, to wash away their sins, to absolve the neighbourhood. The recent hot weather meant the rain was warm and hot moisture saturated the air. The ground desperately needed it, weeks of stifling temperatures had left everything hard and brown, the scorched earth was just crying out for water. Sherlock watched the window pane become littered with tiny droplets, the sound of the tapping of the rain against the glass joining the chorus of heavy breathing and squeaking bed springs.

Sherlock shifted the weight on his elbows, which were currently supporting his entire upper body and thrust his hips back, he heard John groan behind him as his cock slid in deeper. The hands on his hips strengthened their grip on him, he jerked his body back once more to meet John's hard thrusts. Sherlock dropped his head down so his curls grazed against the pillow. Suddenly John stopped his movements, Sherlock was about to open his mouth to protest, but then he felt himself being lifted up, John manipulating his body so he was in a kneeling position in the middle of the bed, his back flush against John's bare chest. He leant his head against John's cheek, the older man cupping his cheek with one hand and stroking his hardness with another.

Sherlock had felt a slight sting as the angle changed, John's cock stretching his walls yet further. The hand cupping his erection began to pump relentlessly and John gently nipped his ear.

'Feels so good.' John murmured.

'I'm glad you are, ahhhhh, enjoying yourself back there.' Sherlock panted. The hand on his cock tightened.

'I am. Very much so.' John panted back, his thrusts speeded up and he pounded into Sherlock's slim waist. 'God your voice is just so….' John failed to come up with the right words to describe those sweet, dulcet tones.

'Does my voice make you hard John?' Sherlock smiled back.

'Oh god yes.' John exhaled. Sherlock deciding immediately decided to use this to his advantage.

'John.' He almost sang, he lowered his voice down as far as it would go, making it as dark and sordid as he could. He put his hand on John's hip, signalling for him to stop his movements. John had always loved the way his name sounded on Sherlock's lips. 'You know the first time I ever brought myself to orgasm was on this bed.'

'Was it?'

Sherlock nodded, he leant his head back and kissed along John's cheek. 'Yes, and do you know what?'

'What?' John tried to reply as casually as he could, but Sherlock's voice was driving his crazy.

'I was thinking about you.' He wrapped his hand around John's fingers and slowly began moving it along his erect member.

'Really?' John's voice cracked out. Sherlock nodded.

'Yes, I was thinking about you and I became so very, very hard. I didn't know what to do so I started touching myself, I touched myself and it felt so good. I came screaming your name, I came because I was imagining you doing exactly what you are doing it right now.'

'Oh Jesus Christ.' John pushed Sherlock down so he was once again lying face down on the bed. John thrust into Sherlock like a man possessed, he bit down on Sherlock's shoulder and came. Hard. Sherlock felt an eruption of warmth as his body was filled with John's seed. He quickly followed a few moments later. They collapsed into a tangle of limbs, after they caught their breaths John pulled out. He disposed of the condom into Sherlock's wastepaper bin and used a pack of tissues that lay on Sherlock's desk he cleaned them up. He grinned at Sherlock who lay sprawled out on his bed, looking thoroughly debauched, his lips plump from kissing, his hair skewed from where he had run his fingers through it.

'You did that on purpose didn't you?'

Sherlock shrugged 'Maybe. It's a true story though.'

John chuckled, then began picking his clothes up off the floor. 'As much as I would love to stay, I best be heading back.' He looked at the alarm clock and winced, Sarah would be wondering where he was.

'I'll let you out.' Sherlock sighed mournfully. He wrapped his dressing gown round him and then, once John was fully dressed, he led John down the stairs.

'Thank you. Tonight's been amazing.' John kissed him tenderly. 'See you soon.' He said quickly and he was out the door, closing it with a loud thud. Sherlock stared at the plank of wood, wrapping his dressing gown around him even tighter then before. He half hoped John would walk back through the door, but he knew his lover would be long gone by now.

He went back upstairs and changed quickly into his pyjamas then wrapped himself round his bed sheets. Everything still smelt of John, his sex and his love. John's scent assaulted his senses so much so that he could almost believe that John was still here, that his arms were still wrapped around the older man, and he had not just left minutes beforehand.

Sherlock made do with hugging his pillow instead.

He dozed, allowing his eyelids to flutter closed as the warmth surrounded them. John's smell covering him, he snuggled down into his duvet, relaxing his limbs so he could savour the stone like feel in his legs and the incredibly satisfying ache in his backside. It had been a week since London and he missed the city terribly. He had not yet told John of his chance at a place at university. He did not want to the mar the time they spent together. He was desperately trying to keep things exactly as they were for as long as he could. He did not want his news to upset the delicate balance between them.

He must have dozed off because he suddenly found himself being jerked awake by the sound of the front door being slammed shut. He heard the sound of heavy, unsteady footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock leapt up off the bed and tried to stay as calm as he could as his door was swung open. His father staggered into his room, mumbling incoherently to himself. He swayed from side to side and side and set a half drunk whiskey bottle on his desk. He wiped his mouth with his sleeve and stood upright, composing himself for what was to come.

'Well well well Locky.' Sherlock flinched at the long lost sound of his childhood nickname. Locky. His mother used to call him that. His father stumbled to the ground and picked something up off the floor. 'What do we have here eh Locky?' Sherlock's heart sank as he realised his father held the empty condom wrapper that he had carelessly not yet disposed of. Idiot Sherlock, idiot.

'Who have you been fucking eh Locky?'

'No one.' Sherlock snapped back. His father laughed.

'Suppose not, who would want to shag a worthless piece of shit like you?' Sherlock tried not to allow himself to be effected by his father's taunts. John loves me. He loves me. His father was wrong.

His father threw the wrapper onto the desk. 'Being someone's whore, that's low, even for you.' His father tutted, his voice completely devoid of emotion. 'You know I was so excited the day your mum told me she was pregnant again. If I knew what a snivelling little cunt you would turn out to be I would have told her to get rid.'

Sherlock sighed, he had heard it all before so the words no longer had any effect on him. He was no longer bothered by it now.

'You're going to do it, aren't you?' Sherlock asked, tired of being toyed with.

His father shrugged. He took a long swig out of the whiskey bottle, cheap nasty stuff.

'Just get on with it.' He rolled his eyes just wanting to get it over with. There was no point trying to drag it out.

'As you wish.'

Pain erupted in the side of his face as a curled up fist struck him. He toppled to the side clutching his face in pain. He was struck by the hard leather of the belt next, a burst of agony across his back, he fell to the floor as lashes rained down on him. He begged for it to be quick, it wasn't. It wasn't. It seemed to go on for an eternity. He tried to go back to earlier in the evening with John, but his mind would not cooperate.

Finally his father stopped, to out of breath to continue. Something wet hit his cheek, spit, his father had spat on him as a final insult.

'No one's gonna want you know Locky.' He laughed 'Fucking no one.' He slammed the door shut.

Sherlock lay very still, the hard floor dug into his side yet he found he did not have the energy to move. Again he tried to focus on earlier with John, John's sex, John's voice, his kisses and sweet words, but he was in too much pain to find comfort in those memories. He shut his eyes, allowing himself to be consumed by darkness.

* * *

><p>Sherlock awoke violently, he was snapped awake by the feeling of something hard gripping his dark curl. His hair was being pulled by the roots causing a sharp pain is head. He flung his hands up in the air trying desperately to free himself from his fathers iron grip.<p>

'What are you doing?'

'Teaching you a lesson.' He hissed as he was hauled upwards off the floor. 'Think you can whore yourself out in my home? Well think again. I'm going to show you what happens to dirty little sluts like you.' His voice bellowed. His father dragged him by the hair towards the bathroom. Sherlock tried to run away but a vicious punch to the side of his chest winded him, he was easily overpowered. His father forced him down onto his knees in front of the ancient yellowing bath tub, already half full.

'No. please.' He begged. 'Please don't do this. I'm sorry alright, I'll never do it again, I'm so sorry.' He pleaded, but no one came, there was simply no one there to save him. A hand gripped the back of his head and he was forced downwards. His head plunged into the ice cold water with startling efficiency. He fought, he tried so hard to lift his head up but he just wasn't strong enough. The coldness hit his first, the water rushed into his nose and ears, there was utter silence down there, it felt strangely peaceful up until his body began to react to the lack of oxygen. His chest felt impossibly tight, he felt water shoot up into his nose and down his throat. Panic set in as he continued to fight for a way out then, just as he was about to black out, his head was yanked upwards. He coughed and spluttered as air filled his lungs. Burning down his throat like fire.

'Filthy whore.' His father's words rang in his ears, poisonous words he could only just make out over the loud ringing sound in his ears. Just as he got his breath back he was dunked under again, into the quiet calm. He couldn't breathe again, he felt himself thrash around for a few seconds before he was once again pulled out.

'Say it.' His father spat with a venom had grown to fear above all else. 'Say it.'

'I'm a filthy whore. I'm a filthy whore and I'm so sorry.' He cried before finding himself under the water once more. This torture continued to for what felt like an eternity, being pushed under the water, then being pulled out again. His father was relentless, pushing his down till he almost passed out, then hauling him out, he let him have a few seconds of air till he was back n once more.

Eventually he was pushed away from the bath to the ground, water soaked he sank to the floor, so utterly exhausted he didn't even have the energy to stand. His father loomed large over him.

'One of the boys in the Angel has a kid in your year, he heard all the rumours about you. Don't think I don't know I have a fucking queer for a son.' The belt marks from last night were still incredibly painful, and being half drowned meant Sherlock didn't know what else to do but lie on the floor, he coughed and spluttered and just wished it all to be over.

'Fag. Did you like it last night eh Locky? Eh? Did you like taking it up the arse? Just look at you, so fucking pathetic.' There was a zipping sound and he felt something hot cover him, it smelt strongly acidic, urine. His father was pissing on him, somehow of all the things he had done this was the very worst. He had never felt so wretched in all his life, he wanted to die, oh please just let me die. It was only when he heard his father storm down the stairs, and the front door slam shut that he allowed a single solitary tear fall from his eyes, it ran down his cheek and onto the floor. His blinked away the others, deciding not to give his father the satisfaction.

* * *

><p>'Sherlock Holmes?'<p>

Silence.

John looked up from his register to the rows of pupils staring blankly back at him. He saw that the chair where Sherlock normally sat in was completely empty.

'Has anyone seen Sherlock?' He asked the class, not even attempting to mask the worry from his voice. There was a loud murmuring of 'no's' followed by a shaking of heads. It was the last lesson of the afternoon, when the bell rang it would signal home time for the students of St Bartholomew's, if Sherlock had not been seen by now it meant he hadn't been seen all day. He racked his brain frantically trying to think of all the possibilities, he couldn't be ill, he was perfectly fine when John had left the night before, more then fine in fact judging by the amazing…no, focus John you can't think about sex right now. Okay, next possibility was that he was bunking off, that seemed highly logical as Sherlock was forever complaining that his lessons were boring and tedious, but would he really skip Biology? Wouldn't Sherlock want to come and see him? To give him fleeting glances and secret smiles from across the room? No, he wouldn't skip Biology, he just wouldn't, would he?

John carried on teaching the lesson but his mind couldn't shake the worry he felt. Her tried to focus but his eyes kept wondering to the empty chair at the back of the classroom. He set a small exercise and while their attention was occupied he sent a quick text.

Recipient: Sherlock Holmes.

Where are you?

JW. X

There was no reply. Sherlock usually responded immediately. This wasn't right, okay calm down. Maybe he was simply at the library? No, Mrs Hudson was working today and she would make him come in. He remembered the last time Sherlock had missed a lesson, he had run away, maybe he had simply run away again? The lesson continued, as the minutes passed John was growing more and more convinced that something was seriously wrong.

He glanced at his watch, the looked over his class. He needed to find Sherlock but he had to teach them, he couldn't just abandon an entire lesson just to go off on a whim could he? Oh screw it yes he could.

'Alright everyone, have you all finished question one?' There was a loud chorus of yes's. He looked at his watch again, there was only fifteen minutes of the lesson left anyway.

'Good, right, I'm letting you all go home early, leave quietly and don't forget to give me your homework.'

There was a loud cheer, getting rid of them all was so easy, after all what schoolchild would miss out on a chance at an early escape? None. John hoped finding Sherlock would be this easy. God he hoped he was okay. As soon as the last bit of homework was handed in and the last student was out the door John frantically began packing his things. The calm composure he had managed to somehow maintain throughout the lesson evaporated immediately. No one was watching him now, it was okay to freak out. He almost ran out the room. He had to find Sherlock, he just had to. His gut told him something was wrong, and from an early age John knew inner instincts were something that should never be ignored. He had to pay attention to them, and they told him he needed to find Sherlock, that Sherlock needed him. He would follow that, even if he had no idea what he would find.

* * *

><p>'Sherlock! Sherlock.' John pounded on Sherlock's front door with his fist. He had been doing this for so long that he was surprised a neighbor hadn't come out from beneath the net curtains and told him to shut the hell up. He saw a few twitches but the street seemed far too busy watching countdown or the Jeremy Kyle show to pay him any attention. He balled his hand up once again and struck the door, pain shot through his arm. The door itself was locked so he tried peering through the letterbox, he saw nothing, only an empty flight of stairs.<p>

'I know you're in there.' He yelled through the rectangular gap in the door, snapping it closed he walked away from the door. Maybe he was wrong, maybe his gut instincts which told him Sherlock was at home were wrong. Maybe the younger man was not at home and while he was trying to pummel the door down using only his hands Sherlock was somewhere else entirely.

Just as he was about to leave he heard the familiar sound of a door being unlocked, the key being turned in a lock filled the air around him, the door opened quickly. Everything had happened in such a frantic haste John almost missed it. He saw Sherlock's face and his heart seemed to leap into his mouth, he looked awful, hair stuck out in all directions and wide, terrified eyes darted about. He looked scared out of his wits. John had never seen him so out of control and so flustered.

'You need to go.' He spluttered. 'He'll be back soon, he can't find you here please you need to go.'

John let out a gasp when he saw a large, angry red mark on Sherlock's cheek.

'What the hell happened?' He demanded.

'Nothing. Please you have to leave.' The younger man pleaded.

'Like hell I am.' John pushed past his student and stormed into the house. He looked around for signs of trouble but it seemed they were alone. He dropped his bag on the floor, the sudden noise made Sherlock jump so hard it looked like he was leaping out of his very skin.

'What the hell is going on?'

'Nothing.' Sherlock choked out, shaking his head from side to side.

'Then what is that on your cheek?

'Nothing!' Sherlock lied again. 'It was just some boys at school.' Sherlock was really panicking now, John couldn't find out the truth, he just couldn't.

'Boys at school?' John almost laughed in total desperation. He didn't believe it for a moment. 'You really mean to tell me boys at school did this to you?' Sherlock nodded vigorously. John found himself shaking his head at Sherlock's obvious lies. Sherlock was out of his mind, he had flinched at a sudden noise, he was agitated, jumpy, on edge. John had never seen him so terrified and out of control, no, whoever had done that was most certainly not some teenage bullies.

Suddenly and quite by accident John spotted something, it was a faint mark on his lovers throat, the younger man had turned his head to the side ever so slightly and revealed the red mark. It was only visible for a few seconds but it was long enough for John to see it. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and pushed him against the wall, lifting his arm up and pinning his wrist above his head, pinning him into place with one hand, with the other he started to undo the buttons of Sherlock's shirt.

'What the hell are you doing?' Sherlock protested as he tried to wriggle free.

When John undid the last of the buttons he pulled the shirt apart. Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw next. Row upon row of bloody lines covered his chest, angry lines of red littered the snow white skin. The clear indentation of a belt, he could almost hear it cracking the skin, he could almost feel the buckle in his hand.

'Are you going to tell me the boys at school did this as well?' John whispered, his voice cracked out as he felt an internal rage start to stew inside him. Sherlock shook his head, he clasped a hand over his mouth and started dry heaving, he almost fell to the floor but John caught him, he pulled the younger man into a hug.

'He did this didn't he?' John asked, Sherlock nodded again, tears began to sting his eyes and fall down his cheeks. John remained utterly still.

'This isn't the first time is it?' Sherlock found he had totally lost the power of speech.

'No.' Sherlock finally managed to choke out. 'It isn't.' He wiped his sleeve across his eyes and blew his nose messily. 'Please John you have to go, he can't find you here he just can't.' Somehow this only made John tighten his grip.

'I'm going no where.' He said defiantly. He was angry, so very angry, he had never been more angry in his entire life. It burnt through him, on the outside he remained calm and composed, but on the inside he felt anger charge through his veins to the extent he felt sick. He was so mad at himself he could barely think straight, how could he have missed this. Had he really been this blind? Had he been so stupid that he had missed it all? All the signs were there, yet he had ignored every single one. Had he really been so pre occupied with getting his dick wet that he had missed the blindingly obvious truth? Obviously he had. If only he had stopped thinking with his cock and actually engaged his brain for only a few moments he could have saved Sherlock so much pain.

He ran a hand through the soft curls and decided now was the time for action. Without really thinking he ran up the stairs towards Sherlock's bedroom. He swung the door open and charged into the small space with a ferocity he had rarely felt before. He grabbed a bag that lay on the floor and yanked it open. He grabbed pyjamas and clothes and threw them haphazardly into the bag.

'What are you doing?' Sherlock asked as he suddenly appeared behind him.

'You're coming with me.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I'm fine, honestly everything is fine!' he protested meekly.

'It's not, I'm taking you home with me, I'm taking you home and I'm never letting you come back. You can't come back here, promise me Sherlock you have to promise.'

Sherlock allowed John's words to slowly sink in, he wished he could go back in time and make sure John had never found out, but there was no going back now, now that John knew the truth. There was just no hiding it anymore. John was trying to save him. Could he let himself be saved? Was he even worth saving?

'I promise.' He said quietly, so quietly in fact it was barely audible. He felt John's lips on his, crushing them together.

'I will sort everything out, just leave it to me.' He spoke tenderly, then with a gentle touch he threaded his fingers through Sherlock's and led him out of the house, away from everything he had ever known.

* * *

><p>Sherlock lent back on the sofa in John's living room. Poppy lay next to him, her head resting in his lap so he could absentmindedly stroke her ears. He had always found being here so calming, but now he found he just could not relax, he tried to settle down but his heart was still beating violently in his chest. He felt on edge and uncomfortable. He shuffled about in his seat trying to get a good position but quickly admitted defeat. Luckily John came in with two mugs of hot tea, he had made tea as soon as they arrived at his house, it was the English answer to everything after all, especially any kind of emotional trauma. He handed a mug to Sherlock and the pair drank quietly.<p>

'What happens now?' Sherlock had been dying to ask that for ages now.

'You're staying here for tonight.' There was a certain note of finality in his voice so Sherlock did not press any further. When they were finished with the tea he leant against the older man's chest, it was a position they had quickly grown accustomed to, Sherlock listened to the steady beat of John's heart.

'When did it start?'

Sherlock sighed, he knew this was coming, at least John had let him have a cup of tea before the questions started.

'I was twelve, maybe thirteen, Mycroft had bought me a chemistry set for Christmas and I had spilt some sort of solution on the carpet, it left a stain and when he saw it he just hit me, suddenly, completely out of the blue. I was in total shock, I expected his to apologise immediately but when I looked at him there was something in his eyes, it was like he has enjoyed it. After that he watched me constantly, waiting for me to slip up so he could hit me again, it didn't happen very often though. Then Mycroft left for uni and he didn't need any excuses anymore.'

He felt John's grip strengthen around him.

'That night at the cinema, you had a mark on your cheek, I remember you said you had fallen of your bike. That was a lie wasn't it?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Yes, yes it was.'

John groaned, he knew that, at the time he could clearly see he was lying. He should have pressed him, why didn't he press him? All these months he had been so wrapped up in this affair, he had let Sherlock down in the worst possible way. He was the one closest to Sherlock in the entire world and he had failed him. As his teacher it was his responsibility to ensure the welfare of his students, and he had failed at that. If only he had taken a few steps back and actually seen properly for a few moments, had actually engaged his brain he could have done something months ago. He had always had a suspicion that something was not quite right with Sherlock home life, why had he ignored it? He wanted to slap himself for missing it. Boy with a well known alcoholic for a father constantly coming in with strange marks on him? Classic sign of a abuse victim. How had he missed that? How had they all missed that?

'Why didn't you tell me?'

Sherlock huffed, tired of the interrogation 'I didn't tell anyone.' He was getting annoyed now, annoyed at John being all sanctimonious, acting like Sherlock should have pleaded and begged for him to rescue him, he didn't need that, he could look after himself. Always had and always would. He didn't like how John was insisting on 'talking', he just didn't want to, he certainly didn't want John coming along and making him spill out all these feelings everywhere. They were better of buried, or better yet ignored altogether. He didn't want John's pity, or to be treated any differently but of course it would all change now. The main reason why he didn't tell his lover what was happening to him was that he knew it was in John's nature to be overbearingly protective, he didn't want that. He wanted his love, not to be stifled by his caring side. He also wanted to be above everyone else, he enjoyed being seen as aloof, cold and not quiet human. Whispers of 'oh look at the poor little abused boy.' Would bring him down, it was the chink in his armour, it would make him one of them.

John continued to fiddle with his hair.

'I don't want your pity.' Sherlock said defiantly 'I don't need you I can look after myself.' He hissed back.

The barbed words caused John's face to contort with pain as soon as they left his lips. Did Sherlock honestly say he didn't need him? He put it down to as throwaway comment spoken in the heat of the moment. The alternative didn't bare thinking about.

'I'm not doing this out of pity, I'm doing this because I can't let you do back there, now I know what's going on. I won't spend my life wondering if you're being hit, I want to keep you safe. Do you honestly expect me to just send you home and let this carry on?'

Sherlock sat bolt upright, he face John, their eyes piercing into one another's. Faces marked with anger.

'I'm not a child John, I expect you to at least let me make my own decisions.'

John began to laugh sarcastically. 'Because that's really worked out so far hasn't it. Suffering in silence? Yep brilliant decision making there Sherlock.' He snapped. Sherlock rolled his eyes which caused John to snap. 'Now you fucking listen to me Sherlock fucking Holmes. I'm not fucking rescuing you, or being your fucking knight in fucking armour, I don't fucking pity you and I certainly don't want my motherfucking ego stroked. I'm fucking doing this because I fucking care about you alright? And if that means I have to fight your fucking corner or fucking take you away against your fucking will then that's what I will fucking do alright!'

Sherlock was rather taken about by Johns outburst, He had not raised his voice but his voice was a tirade of passion, he hurled the words out of his mouth with such speed and force that he was rather out of breath at the end. Sherlock sat back totally stunned, he had never seen John like this before, he had never seen someone be so passionate over him before. He smiled quite unexpectedly.

'Do you always swear so much when you are angry?' he teased.

There was a long pause, but Sherlock saw that, ever so slowly, the corners of John's mouth were twitching and curling upwards.

'Yeah. Yeah I do.' He giggled. Soon the pair descended into laughter. Somehow after all the emotional upheaval and intense arguments, it seemed the most logical thing to do.

'Come here.' John opened his arms and Sherlock leapt into them immediately. John help him exceptionally tightly, trying to bring Sherlock back to him. They spent a little while like this, totally frozen in an embrace, before John looked at the clock.

'Sarah will be home soon. I better put some dinner on.'

Sherlock nodded. 'Can I use your shower?' he asked, keen to once again harness the absolving power of water. He still felt his father on his skin.

'Sure.' John showed him the way, and then walked him into the guest bedroom where he would be sleeping. He revelled in the memories for a few moments before going back to the bathroom and jumping under the stream of water.

When he was done he headed into the kitchen, he found John taking something out of the oven and Sarah standing next to him. She gave him a warm smile as he entered.

'John told me what happened.' She said calmly.

'You don't mind me staying do you?'

Sarah shook her head 'Not at all. You're always welcome here.' She said sweetly. 'I'm a doctor, so if it's alright with you I will like to take a look at your injuries after dinner, is that okay?' Sarah's tone was even, serious yet warm. She hadn't panicked or freaked out, or even worse tried to molly coddle or smother him. Somehow that made everything worse, oh god this woman was perfectly nice and he was fucking her husband.

Sherlock shrugged 'Alright.'

They ate their dinner in silence, John staring awkwardly at both Sarah and Sherlock. He felt Sherlock's leg graze against his but he immediately pulled away, he felt his wife's hand cover his and he almost jumped out of his skin. Was it possible to die of awkwardness? It seemed so. His gaze flittered between the pair, here it was Johnny boy, here was the choice. Which one? Which one will it be? Sarah or Sherlock? Which one? Which one? Which one? Which one? Which one? Which one?

Unaware of her husbands distress Sarah looked at Sherlock, the young man was just pushing the food around his plate and had barely eaten anything. She didn't blame him. Placing a hand on his arm she offered him a gentle smile.

'You don't have to eat it if you don't want to.' Sherlock nodded then set his knife and fork down on the plate. When they had all finished her husband retreated to his study to make some phone calls and she went upstairs to fetch her medical kit. John had told her he had found belt marks, she felt so sorry for the poor boy, and so angry at his father. Who could do such a thing to a poor defenceless child? She got Sherlock to remove his shirt and methodically began to tend to his wounds. She made sure not to show any emotion on her face as she gazed upon his injuries, she kept her voice even, calm and emotionless, knowing this was what Sherlock would want. The last thing he would want was to feel smothered.

'They look pretty bad but they should heal up nicely. The cream will sting a bit but it will stop infection.'

Sherlock didn't whimper, hiss or whine as she applied to cream, in fact he didn't so much as say a word. Somehow she was not in the least bit surprised at this. As she treated him John's story rang round her head, the story of abuse and she immediately wanted to help. It was true she didn't really trust Sherlock, she found him too cold hearted and just plain weird, but no one deserved this, especially not at the hands of someone who was supposed to love you unconditionally. Her heart went out to him. When she had come home to find John downstairs and the sound of the shower running her mind had jumped to all sorts of conclusions. She thought that maybe John had brought her home, and how could he have the audacity to let the women into their home? She was so relieved when it turned out to just be a student that needed his help. John always did the right thing, it was his best and worst quality. Though ever since 'she' (whoever she was) had entered their lives Sarah wasn't entirely sure.

When they were done Sarah led Sherlock to the living room. They watched and old episode of QI, Sherlock was beginning to resent the fact that Sarah was being so nice to him. He wanted her to give a reason for him to hate her, he was in love with her husband after all. Luckily she didn't hover or try to engage him in small talk, she just left him alone so he could loose himself in Stephen's Fry's voice and all the useless knowledge that he delete as soon as the programme was over.

'Good news.' John's voice rang out through the air and he burst into the room. 'Just spoke with Mrs Hudson and she is willing to take you in.'

'Oh that's brilliant.' Sarah beamed at him, wrapping an arm round his shoulders.

'Yeah, says you can move in tomorrow.'

Sherlock swallowed, allowing the information to settle. He had always been close to Mrs Hudson, this may just actually work.

'I also left out the abuse, I just told her you had a fight and he kicked you out. You can tell her if you like, but the decisions up to you.'

Sherlock smiled weakly at him, oh god John was just sickeningly perfect.

He slept soundly that night, more soundly then he had done in years.

* * *

><p>Thankfully Sarah insisted that Sherlock take the next day off school.<p>

'He needs rest John, one day off wont hurt him.'

While the Watson's were at work Sherlock took Poppy for a quick walk, then spent the day lounging around watching crappy day time TV. Sarah had given him strict instructions on how to tend to his wounds while she was away, but he ignored her. They were hidden beneath his jumper, and that's where they would remain, he did not want to look at them.

John returned home earlier then he expected, he must have dashed to his car as soon as the bell had rung.

'I'm taking you home, we'll pick up your things then head straight over to Mrs Hudson's okay?

He helped John load some bags and boxes that were left over from his own move into the car, not that they would need that many. He doubted his worldly possessions would fill even half of John's car. The pair set off down the familiar streets, Sherlock felt slightly nauseous. He hoped and prayed his father would not be in, he hoped they would be in and out in no time at all, he hoped he would never have to come back to this place ever again.

His prayers were answered, the house was completely empty when they arrived. It was cold, still, silent. They went up to his room and began to pack. It took no time at all to entirely gut his room, in less then an hour for his presence to be completely gone. The few boxes that contained his things stood in the hallway of the house. Sherlock held the skull in his hands carefully, like a child clutching a pet. He glanced down at his belongings, and realised this really was it, he was actually being taken away. John smiled and touched his elbow.

'I'm just going to pop to the loo, be back in a sec and we can head off.' He ran back up the stairs and left Sherlock in silence. He gazed around his childhood home once more, though it no longer felt like his home anymore. He felt no sadness at the prospect of leaving. In fact he felt nothing at all. He thought of Mrs Hudson's small cottage, the flowery wallpaper and lavender smell, that was his home now. He might even be happy there. This place would be gone, he would erase it from his memory like it never existed. He would never return, this may have been his mother's home, but too much had happened for him to want to stay.

His heart sank as the front door opened and his father walked in. On seeing his face he felt his would hiss with pain, the sight of him reminding his body what he had done.

'What the hell is going on here?' He scowled at all the neat little boxes that littered the hallway.

'I'm moving out.' He stammered. Right on cue he heard the sound of a toilet being flushed and John's heavy footsteps on the stairs.

His father looked at John, giving him a quick once over. 'Who the hell are you?' he demanded 'get the hell out of my house.' He pointed a finger at the front door but John did not even flinch. He simply shook his head and curled his hands up into fists.

'I'm a friend of your sons and I'm afraid he is coming with me.'

'No he bloody hell is not.' His father protested, suddenly he grabbed hold of Sherlock's shoulder roughly.

'Go to your room right now, I will deal with you later.'

John snapped as he saw the pain that flashed through Sherlock's eyes at his father's threat. He grabbed hold of the greasy haired man's coat, his grip tight on the lapels of his coat, and shoved him hard against the wall.

'Don't you dare touch him.' he hissed. 'He is coming with me and that is that and there is nothing you can do about it, and if you ever touch him again, if you ever speak to him or even come near him ever again I will fucking kill you do you understand?' he snarled.

His father looked completely stunned by John's display.

'What's he done.' He sneered 'to make you act like that?'

John ignored the jibe and pushed him away.

'Come on Sherlock, we're leaving.' He grabbed a brown box and charged out the door, Sherlock following closely behind. They loaded up the car quickly. In no time at all Sherlock's presence was entirely gone from the house. It was like he had never existed.

Sherlock's mind was racing as they pulled away. He couldn't believe John had done that. No one had ever stood up for him, especially not to his father. He couldn't quite wrap his head around John's actions, he couldn't believe that his lover, who looked so passive in those silly jumpers, was actually a complete badass.

He was riding on a wave of adrenaline, he shuffled about in his seat unable to sit still. The skull lay in his lap, the large empty eye sockets staring directly ahead.


	18. Oxford

**Hello everyone, so sorry this took forever to upload but things have been pretty hectic with me, I've started a new job (excite!) So I've had very little time to do anything. Good news though, I'm writing this...on my new laptop! Amazon I could kiss you.**

**Also I received a PM from someone asking me if it was okay to translate this story in to Chinese! How cool is that! If anyone else wants to translate this into any language they fancy you have my full permission to do so :D **

**This chap is short, but I hope you all like it. I'm also gonna delete the authors note now I'm up and running again because lets face it no one wants to read that. **

**MB **

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**Hands On Education.**

**Chapter 18**

**Oxford**

'Wakey Wakey Sherlock.'

Sherlock groaned as he was forced into consciousness by a slipper wearing Mrs Hudson, her fluffy pink dressing gown, which was wrapped round her tightly, assaulted his eyes as he tried to resist the urge to fall straight back to sleep. She gently rocked his shoulder and then when he yawned and stretched his arms she got up off his bed and flung the curtains open. Sherlock screwed his eyes shut as the bright sunlight hit his pupils. He groaned again and rolled over, snuggling down tightly into the floral duvet that adorned all of Mrs Hudson's guest bedrooms.

'Don't even think about going back to sleep. I'm going to make breakfast, and you will eat it young man. I want none of this digestion slows me down crap, you have a really big day ahead and I'm not sending you out there on an empty stomach.'

He groaned again, internally this time. He couldn't wait for today to be over with, if only to have everyone stop banging on about at as if it was the most important thing in the world. Honestly, it was just an interview, it wasn't like he was doing anything particularly exciting. Answering a few questions by some balding professors hardly seemed to be worth all this fuss, he would sail through, and he really, really didn't want breakfast.

Mrs Hudson left him to get dressed, he had been living here a few weeks now and they had quickly struck up an easy routine. Sherlock cared deeply for the old woman, he felt something for her that he didn't feel for anyone else. It seemed to be enough as he didn't mind holding her knitting or watching the silly make over shows she was addicted to. She took very good care of him, when he wasn't at the lab or studying hard he found her company enjoyable. Living with the neighbourhood gossip also had its perks, and he learnt far more about the lives behind those net curtains then he ever did at the police station. He had kept his word and not told her about the abuse he had suffered at the hands of his father, like John she would blame herself for missing it. She would feel the same kind of personal responsibility that John had. If she knew the truth it would kill her, and besides what was the point in revealing all now he was perfectly safe? No, some things were best left in the past, and this was one of them.

He would almost say he was happy here, with Mrs Hudson and her cosy cottage, it was certainly a loving environment, nothing at all like the bleak, pain filled years he had spent with his father. The only downside was John. His father couldn't care less about him, which was useful when you had something so big to hide. He passed in and out of his fathers house with very few questions asked, but Mrs Hudson was keeping him under intense scrutiny, where he was going and what time he would be back. The constant supervision meant seeing his lover was very difficult. She knew he had no friends his own age, so sneaking out under the guise of seeing them was out of the question, he found the time they had to spend together seemed to diminish every day and he was growing frustrated, though Mrs Hudson was only one hurdle that needed to be crossed, Sarah was a far bigger obstacle. Over the past few weeks Sherlock noticed Sarah was having John on a very tight leash. He didn't want to think what that meant. The only time they had guaranteed to spend together was Sunday evenings, John would come round claiming to be tutoring Sherlock, though last Sunday Mrs Hudson had barely closed the door before John possessed him, his cock still burned at the memory.

He wished John could stay, he so badly wanted to be John's everything. To go to bed by his side and know he would be there in the morning, he also wished he didn't feel this way, that he could go back to his life pre John and just not feel anything. It would be so much easier that way.

Mrs Hudson had ironed his suit to perfection, he put some gel in his hair then went to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He stared at his reflection in the mirror as he brushed the enamel. His hair flattened down made him look strange, no curls flying about, he looked older. Sharper.

'Look at you.' Mrs Hudson cooed as he came downstairs, pulling him into a big hug and kiss. 'Your mother would be so proud.' Sherlock winced at the words, he didn't want to know what his mother would think if she knew the truth about him. That he was happily fucking a married man and praying for a once solid marriage to crumble. Would getting a place at university really make up for this? No, of course it wouldn't.

He poured himself a large mug of coffee and scowled at the plate of scrambled eggs and toast Mrs Hudson had put in front of him. He ate for her sake, he didn't savour the taste.

'Its so good of Mr Watson to agree to take you in.'

Sherlock nodded solemnly, the pair ate in silence, waiting for John to arrive.

* * *

><p>John flicked off the indicator and exhaled, he kept his foot on the accelerator and kept the speed steady, keeping a safe distance behind the Honda Civic in front. The motorway stretched out before them, miles upon miles of grey road and cars zooming past. He loved driving on the motorway, it same speed and same direction for all the time you are on it, easy, just keep the speed up and you are good to go. His old car spluttered and strained at the high speed, he really needed to get a new one.<p>

'You're going the wrong way.' Sherlock sat in the passenger seat, the map lay on his lap, his feet resting on the dashboard. His converse shoes peeking out of the trouser legs, the suit he wore was a relic from Mycroft and was far too big for him, the length was fine but the fit was baggy. He hoped it wasn't too noticeable, seeing as few people stared at the younger man for as long as he did he doubted it was.

John rolled his eyes, Sherlock had been telling him the route he had planned was wrong as soon as they left Bakerford, John took no notice, this way was quicker, he knew exactly where he was going. Well he sort of knew where he was going, he had never actually been to Oxford before, but he had meticulously planned the route they would take.

'When you get your own car we can go the route you want, until then we go my way.'

Sherlock huffed and glared out the window. 'If I was driving we would get there in no time, why do you have to drive so slow?'

'I'm at 70!'

'Exactly'

'That's the speed limit.' John insisted.

'Speed Limits are dull.' Sherlock sat up in his seat, uncrossing his long legs and taking them off the dashboard. He fiddled with his seatbelt, he turned on the radio, proceeded to proclaim that every radio station they could pick up was rubbish and switched it off. John smiled.

'You're nervous aren't you?' he grinned.

'No.' Sherlock huffed again. He poked his belly rather harshly.

'What are you doing?'

'I feel bloated, Mrs Hudson made me eat breakfast.'

'Yes, how dare Mrs Hudson make you eat breakfast on one of the most important days of your life.'

John didn't mention it, but he was secretly ecstatic that Sherlock was putting on weight. Whenever he was around he saw Mrs Hudson try and fatten him up with something, and he was round often, though not as often as either of them would like, coming round under the guise of tutoring him for his final exams, which sometimes he actually insisted on doing, much to Sherlock's disappointment. Though when Mrs Hudson was at bingo, or round Mrs Turners for bridge nights, he taught Sherlock altogether far more physical things.

Sherlock seemed to revel in her company, and she treated him like the son she never had, not that Sherlock would admit it out loud but John knew evenings spent in front of the TV watching whatever crap Mrs Hudson seemed to favour had a positive impact of the younger man. He was more social, more playful and sometimes it looked like he actually slept. A softer side to him John had never witnesses before was revealed now that Sherlock didn't fear going home any more, Mrs Hudson cared about him, and sometimes that was all that was needed.

'Today is not important.' Sherlock said casually.

'Of course Sherlock, your interview at Oxford is not important in the slightest.'

'John, I'm chatting to a bunch of balding professors about how brilliant I am. I will walk it.'

John chuckled at Sherlock's arrogance, he changed lanes and overtook the Civic.

'You know its going to be more complicated then that.'

Sherlock gazed out the window again, though the view was unchanging. Cars, concrete, fields, he eyes flickered over it all. He saw people sitting in their cars and passed the time deducing, trying to hone in his skill. A part of him wished he was taking the train, he didn't want the pressure of having John here. He was starting to resent just how eager John was about this whole Oxford thing, he had attacked it with gusto, tutoring him, every second of their time together seemed to be all about university. Was John really that keen to get rid of him? There was a part of him that wished that John would throw his arms around him and beg him to stay.

'I might not even go to Oxford, I could stay in Bakerford with you.' Sherlock commented.

There was a loud honking of horns as John nearly collided with the car to his right.

'I'm not having you staying in Bakerford, you can't throw away your whole future, I won't let you. I loved uni, so will you.' John insisted.

'I know I know, I will meet lots of new people have a brilliant time.' Sherlock replied sarcastically.

John sighed 'Its true, this is a brilliant opportunity for you, you need to take it.' John had been saying the same thing for weeks, as soon as Sherlock told him about his chance at a place.

'Yes, but what about us? Unless you are planning on telling Sarah you are going to Oxford every weekend because you love the spires.'

John bit his lip. 'I don't know Sherlock, I just don't know.'

They sat in an uncomfortable silence. John stared at the road ahead.

'Want to practise again?'

Sherlock groaned, he threw his head back and let out a series of fake cries. They had been practising the interview again and again until Sherlock was sick of answering 'why do you want to study at Oxford?'

'I will take that as a no then.' John murmured.

'You just concentrate of the driving okay?' Sherlock replied snappily.

'All right but if you don't prepare then prepare to fail.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'If you say that one more time then I will punch you on the nose, I don't care if you're driving.'

'Look I know we have done it before but the more you do it then the more confident you will be.' John protest.

'John' Sherlock tried to interrupt.

'And sometimes it's not what you say at interviews its how you say it.'

'John.'

'They will have to sit through people saying the same thing again and again.'

'John.'

'If you say things like you mean it people will believe you, so you have to be really confident.'

'JOHN!'

'What?'

'You missed the turn.'

'God dammit.'

Sherlock tried to stifle his laughter at the list of varied and rather exotic swear words that John began to utter.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had never wanted a cigarette quite as badly as he did right now, he leant against the wall and checked his watch again, ten to. Ten minutes, he had ten minutes. An eternity ago he had fifteen. John sat on a chair looking extremely calm. Of course <em>he <em>would be calm, all he had to do was say encouraging words and wait, it was Sherlock who actually had to do the interview.

4 minutes. John gave him a smile, he could do this, it would be easy. All he had to do was answer the questions. Convince them, be confident. Just get through.

3 minutes. Mycroft had done this, maybe he stood exactly where he was now. The interior was old, a very British type of stuffy elegance. He imagined that this was what the inside of Mycroft's head would look like.

2 minutes. A man and what was obviously his son sat down, the auburn haired youth gave Sherlock a quick hello. Sherlock didn't respond.

1 minute. Why was the man talking to John? He didn't like to share and hated it when John's attention was on anything other then him.

'Sherlock Holmes?' A sharp voice called out.

'Good luck.' John beamed. He could tell by the stiffness in the shoulders John wanted to hug him, though he was refraining due to the audience around them. Sherlock wished they were alone, he really could do with a hug. 'Remember what I said.'

'Be myself?'

'Yep, but not too much like yourself, be humble, don't be a smart arse.' John replied with another warm smile.

Sherlock nodded and followed the woman down the corridor and into a small room. There were three men sitting at a table opposite, he greeted them shyly and sat in a hard wooden chair in front.

'So tell me Sherlock, why do you want to study at Oxford?' The middle one asked shortly. Clearly wanting to cut to the chase, he wore a faded tweed jacket a bow tie.

Sherlock opened the mouth but no words came out, he tried again but again there was silence. What was happening to him? He began to panic, where the hell was his voice? He saw one of the men check his watch. The man in the middle coughed.

'My boyfriend said it is a good opportunity.' he stammered, no wait that wasn't what he mean to say. Silence again filled the room. Oh god, say something. He had to say something.

'You have three cats.' he blurted out. The man in the middle raised an eyebrow.

'I'm sorry?'

'Cat hair, on your jacket, ginger, black and grey. You're also divorced, there is a tan line on your ring finger.' The man murmured something he couldn't hear. He turned to the man on the left 'You have tired clubber's eyes, obviously a younger girlfriend that your trying to keep up with.' then the man to his right 'And your fashion sense is appalling.'

'Um okay.' The man in tweed looked at the others, the man to his right began leafing through his file.

Sherlock's heart began to suddenly beat very fast, he wanted to tell them that he could play the violin, that he helped solve a murder case, but he just couldn't find the words.

'Right Sherlock I think we are pretty much done here.'

'No wait. Look I'm sorry, but please just listen. I need to study here because I need to know things, I need to learn because otherwise my brain will rot. I have nothing, you can see it in my file, my mother is dead and my father is an alcoholic, all I have is that I'm smart. I'm smarter then everyone else I swear. If you give me a place all I will do is find out everything there is to know. If you let me study here I will never let you down'

He got up to leave.

'Sherlock.' the man in the middle called to him.

'Yes'

'See you in September.' the man smiled back.

Sherlock felt like he would burst.

'Thank you.'

John chewed on a fingernail in nervous anticipation. What the hell was going on in there? The man he was sitting next to smiled at him.

'Was that your son?'

'No.' John exclaimed, then realised that was perhaps too loud. He coughed. 'Oh god no, he is my student.'

'Must be pretty exciting eh? One of your pupils getting into Oxford.'

'Yeah, I supposed it is.' John stared at the corridor that Sherlock had disappeared down.

'That's my son.' he nodded at the auburn haired youth. 'Sam. Say hi Sam.'

Sam mumured hello then went back to texting on his phone.

'Sherlock Holmes. That's an unusual name, bet you have never taught a Sherlock before.'

John smiled, he had an urge to say 'I've never fucked a Sherlock before either' but kept that comment to himself.

'Bit strange you taking him, where are his parents?'

John felt a pang of sadness in his chest. 'He doesn't have any.' he whispered.

Just then Sherlock stormed down the corridor, John suddenly found his younger lover clinging to his chest.

'Take it that went well?'

'No, but I got in.'

John beamed 'Really?'

'Really really.'

'Samwell Tully?' A voice called behind him, but neither Sherlock or John were listening, John placed him hand on the small of Sherlock back and led him outside. As soon as they left the building and felt the sun shine down on them Sherlock pulled John into a fierce kiss. He kissed away the tension that coiled inside him. He kissed in celebration, he kissed away the voices that told him now he was moving away he was loosing the only thing that had ever mattered to him.

'So you really got in?'

'The man said see you in September, so unless he wants me to come to his birthday party, I think it means I got in.'

John laughed 'I'm so proud of you, you know that right? So bloody proud.' He couldn't wipe the grin off his face, not that he had ever doubted Sherlock would get a place.

The pair decided to stay in Oxford for a while longer and spent a few hours wondering around the old city. When it was time to come home Sherlock sat awkwardly in the passenger seat of John's car, his face downcast and serious. They sat in silence, the only sound being John's tinny old car radio, Sherlock put it on if only to drown out the need to talk. Soon they left the motorway far behind and were driving down the old country roads towards Bakerford.

'What's going to happen now?' he asked finally plucked up the courage to ask the older man.

'Well I'm taking you home, Mrs Hudson is probably cooking an enormous dinner as we speak.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'No, I mean to us, what's going to happen to us? I'm moving away. Are you going to stay in Bakerford, or do you want to be with me? Properly I mean, no more secrets or hiding away.'

John contemplated Sherlock words, they rang in his ears and turned his blood to ice.

_'_I don't know.'

'You keep saying that!' Sherlock exclaimed, he was so tired of not knowing, of John just batting his hopes and desires away to one side as if they didn't mean anything to him.

'Because it's true.' John snapped back. 'I love you Sherlock, but you are asking me to give up everything, my wife, my job, my home, everything I've worked for.'

'So you're saying I'm not enough for you, is that what you are saying?'

'For fuck's sake Sherlock.' he flicked the indicator on with far more force then was necessary and swung the car around.

'Then what am I to you? You keep telling me you love me but you go back to your wife every five minutes.'

'I do love you, but...'

'But what? But I want to stay with Sarah? but I just want sex? But I want to stay in this horrible little town because I'm too afraid to say I'm in love with a seventeen year old boy, which one is it?' Sherlock spat out. 'Do you love me John? Do you even like me? Am I too much of a creep for you? Is that it? You're just waiting for me to leave so I don't have to do it yourself is that it? Am I just a convenient hole to you when your wife isn't putting out?'

Suddenly John slammed down on the breaks, the car came to an abrupt halt, there was nothing or no one for miles around. 'Get in the back.'

'What?'

'Just fucking do it okay.'

Sherlock tentatively got out, then climbed into the back passenger seats. He had never seen John so mad before, he saw the older man dig around in the glove compartment for something. He slammed the door open and stepped out, Sherlock had no idea what was going on. What the hell was John going to do. Was he going to strangle him and leave him in the woods? He looked so angry, he was probably capable of just about anything.

John slammed open the door and grabbed hold of Sherlock, pushing him down onto the seats till he was lying on his back with John on top of him. Suddenly he found John crushing their lips together.

'Do you really think I'm risking everything for some fucking fling, do you?'

Sherlock said nothing. John ripped open the buttons of his shirt and began violently kissing his neck, it would leave a mark.

'John' he gasped.

'Stupid Fucking Sherlock Holmes. You think this means nothing to me?' he grabbed Sherlock's belt and ripped it open. He pulled the trousers of the too big suit down, then his underwear, the cramped space inside the car meant there was no where to run or hide. John pulled out his own length and began coating it with a bottle of hand cream he had found, Sherlock knew he wasn't going to be lovingly prepared, this would be fast and brutal. Oh god he didn't care.

John positioned himself between Sherlock's legs, he pushed in with very little warning, he fought Sherlock's body, demanding entrance. Sherlock cried out, but wrapped his arms around John pulling him closer, he revelled in the burn, in the heat, in the pain. He always had. He wanted to hurt, just how much he wanted this scared him.

John moved with no grace, no finesse, there was no thought to his movements. It was all just white hot pleasure, and just how much of it could he get. He bit down on Sherlock shoulder. He kissed Sherlock again, thrusting his tongue in, demanding and aggressive. It screamed give everything to me right now.

'How does it feel Sherlock? Being fucked in the back of my car?' John growled, the fury of his voice matching his movements. 'Want to know the truth Sherlock? Truth is I love you more then anything or anyone in my whole entire life. Satisfied now? Or do you want to know more? Do you want to know what I have to think of you just to get myself hard enough to fuck my own wife? Do you want to know I would do anything for you like a sad pathetic dog?'

The words shot straight to Sherlock's cock, he was so hard. More hard then he ever remembered being. John hitting his prostate with every thrust. He was going to cum, and John hadn't even touched him.

'Oh God Oh god. John' he groaned.

He turned his head away, screwing his eyes shut as he felt his orgasm form, the tight know in his stomach, ecstasy run through his veins. John grabbed his hair and turned his head to face him.

'Look at me, look at me while I make you cum.'

Sherlock exploded in a fountain of pleasure, white spewed over his stomach. He let out a series of loud moans. He was almost screaming. He felt something warm fill him and knew John had joined him in completion.

They dressed slowly and staggered back into the front of the car. John panted, oh god what had he just done? The man in the back, that wasn't him at all. What the hell was happening to him? What had Sherlock turned him into? Sarah, where was Sarah? Sarah was safe, she had never turned him into an animal. Sarah, Poppy, the semi and neat garden. He wanted to go home. He felt sick with himself.

He stared at the road ahead, Sherlock's words echoing in his head. Why couldn't he just admit it? That secretly he was a coward, that the love he felt for Sherlock was so all consuming he wanted to run away and hide. He had started this, but he couldn't end it. So far it had been easy, but now he was at the final jump and he could feel himself bolting. Sherlock was his secret love, but now he was faced with the cold light of day and he realised that he just couldn't do it. He was a ship that wanted the smooth calm waters of the harbour, rather then the treachery of the open ocean.

They had been in a dream, now, perhaps, it was time to wake up.


	19. Owl

**Ahoy everyone, no incredibly long note this time, just thank you to everyone you reviewed last time. Also this has nothing to do with anything but Dark Knight Rises! I have seen it (twice-don't judge me) and its amazing, I love you Nolan!**

**Enjoy this chap :)**

**Hands On Education.**

**Chapter 19**

**Owl**

John stared down at the thermometer in his hand. He held the plastic rectangle between thumb and forefinger as he looked at the reading on the small screen.

'Well I think I know what's wrong with you.'

'What?' Sarah, his wife, croaked back. She was huddled up in a blanket on their sofa. The Afghan was so large and thick only her head was visible. She looked like a giant colourful blob.

'You're ill.'

It had started the day before yesterday when Sarah came home complaining of an upset stomach, and then things got progressively worst. He had awoken last night and the night before that to her running back and forth to the loo as she vomited her guts up. Luckily it was the weekend, so John could stay home and look after her. Not that she appreciative of all his hard work, for a doctor she was a terrible patient. She moaned at the slightest thing, kept refusing the water John placed in front of her and insisted on taking over the recommended dose of headache tablets. Though John found it hard to be annoyed at her drama queen antics, he thought she was being adorable.

She screwed her face up at him, then picked up a nearby cushion and flung it at him, John managed to catch it easily. The stomach bug had impaired Sarah's strength and she threw like a five year old.

He felt her forehead with the back of his hand, god she was burning up 'I'm going to make you some soup.' he insisted

'I don't want soup.' Sarah protested.

'Tough, because I'm making you some anyway.' John was not the world's best cook, but he was confident in his abilities in opening a tin and boil.

The smell of Heinz tomato soup immediately brought him back to his own childhood illnesses, of being exactly where Sarah was now, wrapped up in a blanket on the sofa with his mother fussing over him. He savoured the memories it brought up. Of being that energetic, mischievous boy, he wished he could go back to him, life was so much easier then.

He stirred the soup until it was hot enough, he watched as a few bubbles appeared in the middle, then he tipped it all into a bowl and grabbed a spoon.

'Here you go.' Sarah took the soup and scooted over so he had enough room to sit next to her. She cuddled into his side, John let her, he even leaned into her. He was confused as he savoured how she felt against him, running his hand through her hair, the way it clung to her forehead from the sweat. He kissed her head softly. It tasted of her shampoo and the earthy smell the illness had brought out of her. She looked so helpless sitting there, wrapped up in the blanket and all the energy sucked out of her. He suddenly felt a sudden surge of protectiveness, seeing her is such a tender state. She was normally so feisty and independent, but now she needed him. It took a lot for John to care about someone, normally he liked to have everyone at arms length, to keep everyone at a safe distance but once he let someone in he would be there till the end of time. It was why he couldn't give up on Sarah, or their relationship, he was so loyal he could sit there and watch their relationship fall to pieces, but he would just not leave. Sarah needed him, and even though he could leave, should leave, pack everything up and admit defeat, he wouldn't.

During one of his many attempts to save his sister Harry, she had yelled at him that he had a hero complex. Maybe she was right. Harry, even in the darkest depths of her alcoholism, had an ability to see straight through him.

Sarah placed the bowl down on the coffee table and sighed in approval.

'Good?' John asked.

'Yes, I must remember to thank Mr Heinz for the quality of his soup next time I see him.'

John laughed, it had been ages since Sarah had made him laugh, it had been ages since Sarah had made him feel anything. He was, dare he say it? Rather content with the situation. He hadn't felt this in so long.

He suddenly remembered Sherlock, the ferocity of the love he felt for him. How viciously he had fucked him in the back of his car mere days ago. How was it possible that someone could be that important? That he could need someone so badly? It freaked him out, how much he needed Sherlock, he was like a drug to him. Sherlock was the needle being rammed into his veins, like an addict, or a junkie lying in a gutter somewhere. Sherlock seemed to be bringing out the worst in him, he was jealous and possessive over his younger lover. John hated that Sherlock had consumed his soul. He was also deeply afraid, Sherlock held his heart in both hands, what would he do when Sherlock went to university? He would see all the pretty young men running around campus and then what would happen? Would he really want a podgy middle aged man with a love for shapeless jumpers after that? Of course he wouldn't. John had always felt he wasn't good enough to be with Sherlock right from the start. If he had been the same age Sherlock wouldn't have looked at him twice and why would he? Sherlock was the most beautiful man John had ever laid eyes on, and John had always seen himself as rather average. He certainly didn't think he was ugly, he was just bland, boring, average.

Then there was the age difference, 18 years! 18 fucking years between them. Sure it was fine now but what about when Sherlock grew up? Would someone in their twenties really want to be with a man pushing 40? All the insecurities suddenly came up to the surface. It wouldn't work, he was too old for Sherlock, he wasn't smart enough, he wasn't good enough. Sherlock would go to Oxford, meet some amazing man who could do advanced physics in their sleep and that would be that. John would be forgotten.

He looked at Sarah, for what felt like the first time. She was home, she was safe, she was a quiet life of no surprises. She was a small suburban semi and a few kids, she was a two week holiday every year to the continent and Christmas with the in laws, she was dinner every evening and nights spent in front of the TV, she was getting paid every month and a few pints with the lads on a Friday night, she was complaining about the weather to the neighbours and walking the dog down the quiet streets. She was the simple life. She was everything he thought he wanted.

What would his life with Sherlock be like? Arguing, great sex and worrying whether or not he was sleeping with every young man in Oxford. Of wondering where the money was going to come from and how they would pay the rent.

It was now do or die with Sherlock, everything felt very claustrophobic. He knew it couldn't go on for much longer, something was going to have to give.

'I love you.' He said without even thinking.

'Even when I'm ill?' Sarah raised an eyebrow.

'Yes. Even when your are snotty and disgusting.' he insisted, Sarah smiled.

'Care to join me?' she giggle as she unwrapped the blanket. He pulled her towards him and he wrapped himself around her. Pulling the blanket over them.

Her pyjamas were soft against his skin, hiding the pale skin underneath. Her eyes large and bright. The sun clear in the sky outside the living room window. He watched her, he just couldn't help himself. She yawned and managed to fall asleep on his shoulder, John didn't mind, he found that sleeping it off was always the best way out when you were ill. He flicked off the TV and sighed, enjoying having his wife pressed up against his body. He found himself drifting off to and before he knew it, he to was asleep.

Sarah awoke first, she felt a little better then she had been the past few days. She felt stronger and the headache had lessened, she also hadn't thrown up in hours. Which was always a plus. She had drunk her weight in orange Lucozade to lessen the burn in her throat when she did. It was far nicer chucking up orange sugar then anything else.

She shifted her weight trying not to wake up John who was snoring softly beside her. It was impossible as he was the lightest sleeper in the world, and her merely moving her leg caused him to snap his eyes open.

'Are you all right?' he panicked 'Do you need anything? Soup? Water? Are you going to throw up?'

Sarah laughed 'No I'm fine, stop fussing John.'

John cupped the side of her cheek in his hand 'Sure there isn't anything I can do?'

Sarah pondered that question for a few seconds. 'I really need a bath actually.' Sarah knew she did, she felt grimy and sweaty and she was pretty sure she smelt rather ripe. She really wanted to feel clean again, and a fresh pair of pyjamas.

'All right Mrs Watson.' John exclaimed 'Your wish is my command.' he leapt off the sofa and ran up to their bathroom. She heard the sound of running water upstairs. Feeling far too weak to get off the sofa by herself, she stayed exactly where she was.

John came back down the stairs a few minutes later, he picked her up off the sofa and carried her, bridal style, up the stairs, the bathroom was small but there was just about enough room in their for two. John set her down on the loo seat and then turned the water off. He had used a liberal amount of bubble bath so the bath was full of white, frothy bubbles. It looked so inviting.

John helped her get up and then undress her. She saw him drink her naked form in as he peeled off the pyjamas. It was strange, he had seen her naked more times then she could possibly remember, yet the look in his eyes just now was off a man looking at something for the first time. He had that look on their wedding night.

He helped her get in the tub and she settled down into the hot water. It felt so nice against her. She felt all the grime being washed away. John grabbed a sponge and gently began to wash her. It felt so comforting having his strong hands on her skin. She washed her tenderly, being so delicate in the way only John seemed to know how.

'Lean your head back.' He whispered and she did so, using a nearby jug he poured some of the water over her hair, then he lathered up the shampoo and rubbed his hands all over her scalp. It felt sinfully good. She tried to keep the mournful 'I'm ill and pathetic please look after me' expression on her face but in truth she was enjoying this far too much.

When they were done John helped her out of the bath and wrapped a towel around her, he dressed her in the clean pyjamas she had been waiting for and then tried to comb her hair. He fumbled under the long locks, but he was trying so hard bless him.

'You've never done this before have you?' Sarah smiled.

'No, not really my area.'

'Here let me.' She took the comb off him and finished brushing her hair. Then pulled it up in a sleek pony tail.

'Do you feel strong enough to eat something?''

Sarah nodded, the truth was she was famished. She had barely eaten anything in the past week and now the bug was subsiding she felt the need for food return to her with a vengeance.

'How about Chinese?'

'Sounds great.'

Sarah settled back into her usual position on the sofa, and waited for the food to arrive.

'I've ordered the usual, is that all right?'

'Egg fried rice?' Sarah raised an eyebrow at him hopefully.

'As if I would forget.' John teased, he ruffled Sarah's hair and kissed he lightly on the cheek. She watched the news as they waited for the food to arrive. John was in the kitchen and came back with a large glass of Ribena,

'Here you go.' He handed it over to her, then opened a larger for himself.

When the food finally arrived Sarah attacked it with gusto, she ate all of her own, and even most of Johns. After she was done all that was left was a couple of prawn crackers.

'Blimey.' John laughed 'You really were hungry.'

Sarah shrugged 'Got to get my strength back somehow.'

The next day Sarah felt even better, she called work and told them she would definitely be in tomorrow, she had her strength back, was no longer vomiting every five seconds and the pains in her head and stomach was gone. She felt back to normal, as right as rain, totally and utterly spiffing.

Despite being ill there was one major bonus the weekend had given her. John. It was so good to have John back to her, it was like having the old John back. The John who was attentive, kind, loving, who rarely left her side. He had been so good to her all weekend and she had revelled in the attention he bestowed upon her. They had been so distant with each other the past couple of months. Sarah knew why, even though she dare not admit the truth, even to herself, let alone out loud. She tried to act like everything was normal, even though it wasn't. Now it felt like things had shifted, that their relationship had clicked back into place. That maybe things would be okay after all and they could be the couple they once were. The couple everyone wanted to be. When they had got together every remarked on how they would be the ones to make it. Sarah believed them. She knew John was the one and that she was going to grow old with him. The past few months were just a blip, a tiny, insignificant bump in the road. They could come back from this, they could survive.

Sarah had seen the love in John's eyes, the love he had for her, and she knew she had won.

She wondered into their bedroom where John was. Their was a underlying tension between them that she hadn't felt in a while.

'Hello stranger.' She said wrapping her arms around John's neck.

'Mmmmmm' John sighed, kissing her on the forehead and resting his chin on the top of her skull.

She slipped her hands lower so they encircled his waist, and pulled his body closer to hers.

'Sarah.' he moaned and suddenly his lips were on hers. He crushed their lips together and she responded eagerly, opening her mouth immediately to him. She felt his strong hand guide her to the bed, falling on her back then feeling the weight of John's body on top of her. The tender touches and delicateness of yesterday were gone as he began to tear at her clothes with furious intent.

'Sure your up for this?' he asked.

She kissed him deeply, then slid her hands down to the curve of his arse 'Yes.' she moaned back, closing her eyes as she felt John remove the last shred of clothing from her. Soon he too was naked, except for his underwear. She ran her hands over his body, feeling the soft flesh of her husband. John kissed the soft exposed patch of skin behind her ear and she shivered. His hand crept to her leg and then snaked itself down to the inside of her thigh. She gasped as a finger brushed against her. John found her mouth again, groaning into the kiss she tangled her fingers into his hair and kept him close.

John gazed down at his wife, he nuzzled into her soft breasts and took a nipple into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the bud, feeling it harden. His fingers toyed with her entrance, running the pads of his fingertips over her clit then slipping themselves into the heat. He positioned himself between her legs and licked a trail up her legs, then kissed along the outside of her.

'John.' She groaned. John smiled, the musky scent of her filled him this wasn't what he wanted, was it? He shook his head to dispel the thoughts and carried on. Of course this was right, this was so right. He licked along her wet heat, and slid his fingers deeper inside her, crooking them upwards to where Sarah was most sensitive. He toyed with her clit with his tongue, he heard her writhe and moan out his name. He continued to drive ecstasy into his wife, but something was wrong. He felt himself shrink back. Not that Sarah seemed to notice, she screamed out his name.

'Oh John..I'm...oh god John I'm going to...'

John tried to congratulate himself, he could make Sarah cum, just like old times. He screwed his eyes shut, he needed to do this, he needed to get hard and fuck her. He needed to live without Sherlock. He needed to prove Sherlock didn't completely own him. That he could move on and carry on with his life. Sherlock was moving on, so why couldn't he? He is only going to break your heart he thought to himself bitterly, you need to get out before you get hurt, while you still have your sanity.

Sarah, who by now had come down from her high had reached into the bedside table and pulled out a condom. They hadn't discussed kids in months. He imagined curly blonde haired children running about the garden. He imagined them calling him 'daddy' and him reading them stories and putting them to bed. That will be your reward for sticking with Sarah. After all every man wants kids, including him, yes, course he wanted kids, right? He suddenly felt not quite sure and eternally grateful for the condom.

Again he closed his eyes. 'You need to do this' he repeated over to himself. Sarah is the women you love, the women you have chosen, so just fuck her. He had done it so many times before.

He slipped the condom over himself and pushed himself inside his wife. However, unlike last time, he didn't have to imagine angular features and sharp lines, this time he didn't have to pretend, it came naturally to him, just like it always had done.

He moved inside her, hard and slow, he drew out each thrust. Sarah clung to him, panted into his ear as he fucked her and soon he was cumming deep inside her. It was quick, that was a good sign, right?

He collapsed beside her, feeling heavy and spent. That wonderful heaviness set into his limbs, the heaviness that always came with good sex.

Suddenly his phone vibrated.

_Where are you? – SH_

It was Sunday night, the night he always spent with the younger man. He turned his phone off.

'I love you.' he murmured to Sarah as they lay in their post coital haze.

And he did, god help him, but he did.

* * *

><p><strong>You are all going to carry on reading this right? RIGHT?<strong>


	20. Cracks

**Again A big big thank you to everyone who Reviewed/Alerted/favourited this, I'm still amazed by the response. Also a big thank you to Lock Nelms for all her help. **

**Enjoy!**

**Hands On Education.**

**Chapter 20.**

_**Cracks.**_

_There is something very odd about this_, Sherlock thought to himself as he did up his school tie, the very last time he would do so.  
>This dreary Friday morning would be the last time he would throw on his school blazer and walk down the streets towards St Bartholomew's- <em>this<em> time would be the very last time.  
>He had a History exam and then after that it would be all over; Sherlock didn't feel sad that everything had come to an end, but on the other hand he didn't exactly feel happy about it either. It was a sort of strange… <em>numbness<em>. It was as if he was looking down watching someone else. Someone else who looked exactly like him, a masquerade, wearing his blazer and living his life.  
>Exam week has struck St Bartholomew's with a vengeance- the main hall was filled with individual desks and chairs, and every day Sherlock would be crammed in with all the other students, scribbling frantically along-side him, mopping their brows and chewing their pens in sheer anguish.<p>

Sherlock however, took a far more relaxed approach to the exams. Though he was so glad this was the last one, it felt like it would never end, day after day, hour after hour of being squeezed into the space with everyone else, regurgitating everything he had ever learnt at St Barts. Now it was finally Friday, soon he would hand in his work, walk out the iron gates and that would be that. His last day of being a student at St Barts was so nearly over for good.  
>Sherlock promised himself that he would say goodbye to no one, he would walk out of the gates, into the streets and walk home, that he wouldn't even look back. He had spent every single day at this school <em>wishing<em> he were somewhere else, a place where he wasn't resented or feared, where he wasn't Freak Holmes or The Weirdo. He dreamed of a place where people would admire his intelligence, where he would find _his _own kind.

Considering the importance of it all he had been strangely uninterested and unfazed by it for the whole week. The questions were not difficult; even so, he thought he would at least feel some kind of pressure, or worry, or _something_.  
>Instead, Sherlock didn't feel any of that- in fact, he was rather bored by the whole affair. He just woke up, did his exams, then went home. Such an anti-climax, Sherlock found himself thinking, after so many years of it being drilled into him that this was the most important week of his life.<br>As usual, Mrs Hudson was there to greet him as he came downstairs; she was always there to give him a big hug and wish him luck. Not that he really needed it, he had sailed through the exams like a knife through hot butter; why History would be any different?  
>He closed the door behind him with a thud and began to walk through the streets towards the school.<br>The feeling that this was the last time he would wake up in the morning and do this had not sunk in yet, but maybe when it did the happiness would flow. Right now it all felt very surreal. Mrs Hudson would be leaving for work, then there was her Bridge tournament, she wouldn't be back till late.  
>'Sherlock!'<br>A voice called from behind him. Sherlock turned to see Molly's smiling face running at him  
>'Hi Molls,' he mumbled.<br>'I can't believe it's our last day! This is it, like, _actually_ it.' Molly spoke the words incredibly fast as she tried to catch her breath. 'Can you believe it?'  
>Sherlock shrugged; his face said it all. He, honestly, just could not give a shit.<br>'How do you feel about History?' she continued, 'I hope it's something easy; my God, I hate essay questions.'  
>Over the past few weeks Sherlock had begun to realise that he rather liked Molly, since Moriarty's disappearance it seemed she had completely forgotten her stupid crush on him. He had been there for her during the entire thing and she had come to see him as a sort of gay best friend.<br>Now the awkwardness that stemmed from her crush had evaporated they had become firm friends, and what was left was a rather easy partnership.  
>At first he thought her to be rather bland, inoffensive, a giggling mess of hormones and puberty- just like all the other girls- but now he saw her differently. Molly Hooper was clever, socially awkward yes, but endearing, nice and sweet, but he sensed something underneath that was set to be brought out. Sherlock had never realised but… she <em>meant<em> something to him, it was a shame he had not seen it before. Mollywas a friend, an ally, and since she revealed she had chosen to study forensic pathology his interest in her only grew.  
>'We will stay in touch right?' He said without thinking.<br>'Of course!' She beamed linking an arm through his, Sherlock flinched at the initial contact, but he found it strangely reassuring. 'I'll email you every week while we're at uni, I promise.'  
>They trudged along slowly, neither wanting to hurry to the exam. After a moment of silence, she spoke.<br>'You never told me you had a place at Oxford.' she pouted.  
>'I don't have a place yet.'<br>'Oh please.' she waved her hand dismissively. 'You fail the exams? If you do there is no hope for any of us.'  
>Sherlock couldn't help himself- he smiled.<br>'Where are you going?'  
>'Manchester's my first choice, Leeds second.'<br>After her voice became slightly fuzzy and far away as Sherlock unfocused and let her babble wash over him as they walked on.

When they finally reached the school there was a large group of students milling around the entrance to the main hall.  
>He glanced over the familiar faces; faces he had known, faces he had grown up with, faces he hoped he would never have to see ever again.<br>He let Molly lead him towards two figures that stood at the front of the crowd: one was Mrs Goodman, their history teacher, standing there surveying everyone. With her wild grey hair and half-moon glasses, she was at least a foot shorter than everyone else, despite the heels she wore.  
>'Hello, Mister Watson.' Molly spoke to the other figure. Sherlock stared at the floor, trying to resist the urge he always had: to run into John's arms and pull him close.<br>'Hi Molly.' John smiled back. 'Feeling confident?'  
>'A little,' Molly blushed, the same way all the girls did when they were the subject of John's attention.<br>'Don't worry- you're a smart girl, and if you get stuck just put 1066 and you'll be fine.' Molly giggled, her blush going from a light pink to bright scarlet at the compliment. Sherlock said nothing.  
>'Right, could everyone queue up in alphabetical order, please?' John shouted at the crowd. 'Once you've done that, we'll start letting you in.'<p>

The hall was exactly as he had left it the day before after a particularly annoying Math's exam. Sherlock had quickly deleted trigonometry from his memory as soon as it was over.  
>He pulled of his bag and coat, leaving it in the corner with everyone else's and found his desk. The stiff chair and plank of dark wood was now so familiar it was starting to feel like an old friend. Sherlock carefully took out a pen from his breast pocket and toyed with it between his fingers. He glanced down at the exam booklet that lay in the centre of the desk- here was all that stood between him and Oxford. Well, that and what was what was written on that paper.<br>Suddenly Sherlock had a flash of panic. What if he couldn't do it? What if he had revised the wrong things? What if something went terribly wrong? History was not his strongest subject by a long shot, and this wasn't something he had studied meticulously every day of his life. What if he fell at the final hurdle? This was the first time he had felt anything other than complete arrogance all week, and he didn't like it. What was wrong with him? Why was he worrying _now?_  
>'Okay everyone,' John's calming voice washed over him. He felt at ease immediately 'You have two hours to complete the test. You all know the rules by now- no talking, no distracting each other, no getting up from your desk, and if you need the loo well, that's tough, you should have gone beforehand. Anyone caught breaking the rules will be automatically disqualified from the test, if you need more paper just put your hand up. Okay? Right,' John glanced at his watch. 'It is exactly nine o'clock, test ends at eleven. You may begin... now.'<br>There was the sound of scraping chairs and overturning paper. Sherlock didn't move for a few moments, he suddenly caught John's eye.  
>'Good luck.' his lover mouthed at him. Sherlock nodded.<br>He took a deep breath and opened the booklet, his eyes scanning quickly over the words. He breathed a sigh of relief, The Night of the Long Knives, he could do this. He didn't even have to try.  
>He started to write frantically, he poured out everything he knew onto the pages, the eloquent words just flying out of him. Sherlock was done in under an hour.<br>He glanced at John who was sitting at the front reading a book, when John looked up at him he nodded and the older man smiled.

Sherlock put down his pen on the worn desk and closed the booklet he had been writing on. He had a sudden urge to scribble his name down on the wood, next to all the other names that were carved there. He looked around at the now familiar site of all the other students desperately trying to answer the question he had just breezed through. He had a long wait ahead of him. Sherlock lay back in his chair and let out a breath.  
>It was all over.<br>The large clock was ticking down the seconds he had left, and he had many. Like all the other exams he was done and dusted in under half of the allotted time. He could go back and look through what he had written again, but there was no point, he had got it all right- that was not youthful arrogance, it was simply the truth.  
>The dark haired boy glanced at the other teachers overseeing his history exam. A few glanced back at him, obviously glad he would soon be leaving. He put his head on his hand trying not to disrupt the others.<br>While sitting there, his mind started to wander far away from this dreary hall.  
>Sherlock thought of John, he thought of their life together… he was <em>certain<em> it would happen. He thought of his love, he thought of sex, he thought of how John had become his everything.  
>Sherlock even thought about how drab and lifeless he, and his life, was before him. John did love him, they would be together; he had to move on from Sarah. John didn't love her, at least not like John loved him. He only stayed with her because he felt that was the right thing to do, to honour the foolish promise he had made to her on her wedding day. It would happen, John would get divorced and be with him. It was meant to be… wasn't it?<br>He looked at the clock again. Not long.  
>Sherlock could practically <em>smell<em> the freedom. It was so close he could reach out and grab it. His freedom meant more than simply leaving a school he despised: It meant he would no longer be John's student, and with that it meant there was no reason to hide.  
>John wanted them to be a secret, but now there was no reason to be. He thought of the future, his future, the future that was now so entwined with John's. They could leave, tomorrow if they wanted, and no one could stop them. Not Lestrade, or Sarah, or Mrs Hudson or… anyone. John was <em>his<em>.

Finally.

'You have ten minutes left.'  
>The words broke him out of his dreams. Sherlock leant his head on his arm and waited.<br>When it was over he walked out into the sunshine, all his classmates were gathered in large groups, hugging each other and crying, promising to stay in touch. John was still inside, collecting papers and putting all the tables away. Not that Sherlock minded; after all, he thought (somewhat smugly) he would see him later.  
>'Sherlock!' Molly called after him. 'We're all going to the field' she gestured to his classmates. 'Joe's gonna swipe some vodka from the co-op to celebrate, fancy coming?'<br>Sherlock shook his head. 'No, I'll see you later Moll,'  
>She sighed disappointingly. ''I'll text you' there was a pause. 'I do hope you're going to be more sociable at Oxford.'<br>Sherlock nodded and walked away.  
>No one else came to say goodbye to him.<br>The school year was over, and he had a long summer ahead and then university. Things really were looking up- when this school year began he was an unhappy, secret homosexual with an abusive father and distant brother. Now he was someone so different, he had love, he had sex… quite simply, he had a future.  
>He took off his blazer and swung it over his shoulder. He couldn't help but feel his life had only just begun, he walked towards the exit, past the iron gates and into the beyond.<br>There was no sense of loss as his time at St Bartholomew's came to an end. No sense of anything other than relief that it was all over now. He walked out, exactly as he said, he didn't look back, not for one moment.

* * *

><p>When he returned home he dressed quickly, putting on a fresh pair of clothes (another plus of living with Mrs Hudson, she did his laundry). He hung up his school blazer and tie in the back of his wardrobe- after all, he had no intention of ever looking at it again. Closing the wardrobe on an old part of himself he felt like it was the end of an era.<p>

He looked out over what was left of his life and realised he didn't need anything, just John. He had sailed through his exams, breezed through without even breaking a sweat and now he just needed to move on.  
>Collapsing on his bed, Sherlock dug out a book on forensic science from under his pillow. He lost himself in the words, and the hours past him by as he lay there, dreaming of a new life.<br>Suddenly there was a loud knock at the door.  
>Sherlock bounded down the stairs and opened it; he positively beamed when he saw John's face staring back at him.<br>'Afternoon,' John smiled 'Are you alone?' Sherlock nodded.  
>'Bridge night.' Sherlock replied. There was a twinkle of something mischievous in John's bright eyes that made Sherlock's heart beat quickly.<br>As soon as she closed the door Sherlock leapt into John's open arms  
>'How did your exam go?' John asked immediately.<br>Sherlock shrugged. 'Fine.'  
>John rolled his eyes; he was used to Sherlock just batting away John's questions regarding the tests. John didn't just want one word answers, he wanted to dissect the exams. What questions were asked? What did he put? Did he struggle with anything? Does he feel confident? Sherlock, however, seemed to not care. Everything was just 'fine'.<br>'How does it feel? Being an ex-student of St Bartholomew's?'  
>Sherlock nuzzled into John's arms and kissed the sensitive patch of skin behind his ear in a way that he knew John couldn't resist.<br>'Sherlock,' he groaned.  
>'You know what this means?'<br>'Mmm,' John answered as he wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock's waist and buried his nose into the thick dark curls.  
>'I'm not your student anymore.'<br>Sherlock could almost feel John smile as he replied, 'Indeed.'  
>Sherlock sighed. 'We could be good together, you know, you and me.'<br>'We _are_ good together.' John replied. Sherlock sighed again and pushed John away.  
>'I meant properly.' he protested, 'No more hiding away, no more lying.' he cupped John's cheek in his palm and looked deep into his blue orbs.<br>John laughed, 'Really? And what about Sarah? Mrs Hudson? Lestrade? What about them?'  
>'Fuck them.' Sherlock growled. 'Fuck all of them. We could go somewhere.'<br>'Go where?'  
>'Anywhere! Look let's just leave, just you and me.' Sherlock insisted.<br>'And what would we do? What about my job, eh? Where would we live? What would we do for money?' John replied, suddenly exceptionally serious.  
>'It doesn't matter, as long as we're together.'<br>John sighed in annoyance. 'You foolish child, you have no idea what it's like in the real world, we can't just pack up and leave whenever we fancy it. How would we afford somewhere to live? How would I get a job? No school will hire a man who screws his students. Answer me that, Einstein.'

As soon as the words left his lips John knew it was the wrong thing to say, the look on Sherlock's face said it all. John had hurt him deeply.  
>'Look Sherlock, I'm sorry, I'll sort it I promise… but you have to be patient, remember in London when I said I would never hurt you? Well, that still stands.' John covered his lips with his own, pulling Sherlock into a sweet, gentle kiss.<br>Sherlock tried to resist, he tried to fight back, to demand that John tell his exactly what his plans were, to know he was no longer being strung along. He tried so hard, but then John started applying wet, messy, loving kisses to his neck and he just forgot all about it.  
>John tugged at Sherlock's t shirt lightly, sliding his hands under the thin material so he could feel the soft expanse of Sherlock's back. He pulled Sherlock closer to him, ghosting his back with the lightest of touches. John kissed him playfully in the hallway, covering his mouth with urgent kisses.<br>'Bedroom?' John murmured. Sherlock didn't even try to resist.  
>He led the way, even though John could get there in his sleep. Sherlock linked his hand through John's, tugging the older man to his room with a determined urgency.<p>

Sherlock walked into the room and stood by his bed; he could feel John behind him, and he could feel his eyes raking over his form. Sherlock's breath quickened.  
>Then his phone, which rested on his bedside table started to vibrate.<br>'Ignore it.' John instructed, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and bringing him closer. Sherlock closed his eyes, savouring the feel of John's hot breath against his skin.  
>John let himself become intoxicated by the feel of Sherlock. God, how come he had such an effect on him when no one else could? He was barely through the door and yet his mind was drunk on him, yearning for more. It was pathetic how hard he was already, no matter how hard he tried to kid himself- it was Sherlock who brought this out of him. The excitement, the rush, the sex with Sherlock was just too god damn irresistible.<br>Of course he could try to put this down to something purely physical, that their bodies fitted together so perfectly because that was just the way it was, but the more he thought about it the more he realised this wasn't the case. The sex was mind blowing and he just could not give it up. Sherlock made him cum like no other person had ever done, it was raw unadulterated pleasure, everything, or everyone else, just paled in comparison.  
>He drew Sherlock back so he was now flushed against him, his hands creeping round to his front, again playing with the edge of his t shirt. He savoured feeling the soft hair around Sherlock's bellybutton.<br>Sherlock twisted around and their lips met. Like the first time he kissed him, and every time after that, John felt Sherlock's smell, his taste, his touch just assault his senses. It clouded over his brain till he could think of nothing else, and even now a sweet nothingness overtook him as Sherlock slid his tongue into John's open mouth. He ran his fingers into Sherlock's curls, bringing him closer, feeling as his partners dexterous fingers undid his shirt buttons, then toyed with his belt.  
>Sherlock pulled back and gave him a self-satisfied smirk as he dragged John's trousers down.<br>Before John could say anything Sherlock dropped to his knees.  
>John was shamefully rock hard, clear liquid leaking from the tip, his cock strained against him desperate for Sherlock's attentions.<br>John could only look on helplessly as his prick disappeared down Sherlock's impeccably long throat, before he groaned and bucked forwards as he was taken into the wet heat. Honestly, he was gripping onto Sherlock's curls so tightly he could, quite possibly, rip them from his scalp.  
>Sherlock fought his throats natural reaction and took John as deep as he could, licked the sensitive tip, hollowed out his throat and sucked along the shaft as his fingers he fondled the base and his balls. (The younger man was fairly certain John wouldn't be able to recall his own name at this point, judging by the sounds he was making, and was rather pleased at the fact). He could feel the sweat on the inside of his thighs begin to pool.<br>Sherlock knew no one else could do this to John, the man didn't orgasm so much as completely explode with enough fury start house fire, and Sherlock was exactly the same. He had brought himself off with his own hand enough times to know the difference.  
>John couldn't stop from bucking back and forth as he fucked Sherlock's throat. His shirt was wide open, his trousers halfway down his legs; even though had a strange sense that Sherlock wasn't even trying, this was the best blow job he had ever had in his life. Sherlock continued to pour attention onto his hardness, his mouth seemed instinctively know what John wanted.<br>'Fuck.' He breathed out 'Oh god, oh god…I'm so close, I'm so close, love.'  
>Sherlock felt a rush of warmth whenever he heard John calling him 'love'- it was a pet name he never heard enough. It was only when John was losing himself to orgasm that he called Sherlock something so sentimental, so he also felt a surge of pleasure knowing he was bringing John over the finish line and into completion.<br>Sure enough with one last shout of his name, John ejaculated hard into his mouth. The spurts always seemed to go on forever.  
>John had shoved his fingers into his own mouth and clamped down on them hard in order to stop himself from alerting the whole street to his current predicament. He rode the waves of his orgasm- each one seemed to be more powerful than the last- until the white hot (and almost too much to bare) pleasure subsided.<br>He looked down. There was something so unbelievably erotic at seeing Sherlock swallow his seed. When he came down from his high and was able to get him mind and body back on track he kicked off his trousers and pushed Sherlock onto the bed, he undressed the younger man quickly, tearing at his clothes with almost an animalistic want.

'There is something I want to do,' John whispered, 'Something new.'

Sherlock swallowed nervously, feeling almost like a virgin again as he was pulled in an unknown direction.  
>He could only lie there, on his bed, as naked as the day he was born as John rooted through one of the drawers of his desk and brought out a condom and bottle of lubricant. It was lucky that Sherlock was well stocked in both.<br>John ripped off his underwear and joined Sherlock on the bed, placing the foil packet and lube by the pillow.  
>He wrapped Sherlock round his arms and kissed him deeply. Sherlock's erection was digging into his hip in a desperate bid for attention. John pulled back and smiled as he wrapped a hand round it. John went back and continued kissing Sherlock, until he was just a writhing mess underneath him; he waited until Sherlock was open mouthed, his pupils blown wide with lust, his usually measured movements and kisses messy and imprecise. When they reached that moment John took it as the signal to continue.<br>John took the condom and tore it out of its foil packet. Sherlock was still wondering what John had planned, until John took the incredibly unexpected move- he rolled the condom onto Sherlock's own cock.  
><em>'Oh god is this really happening?'<em>  
>The words went through Sherlock's mind, he was dreamed about this, fantasised about being the one to penetrate, but John had been such a committed top that Sherlock didn't think it would ever happen.<br>'Have you ever done this before?' Sherlock asked as John smoothed some of Sherlock's dark and sweaty hair away from his face and planted a kiss on his forehead. John nodded.  
>'Not for a while though, so you're going to have to be gentle.'<br>Sherlock gave a small chuckle. John's heart pounded in his chest as he straddled the younger man's waist.  
>John poured the lubricant over his fingers then reached down and covered Sherlock cock. He then started to fill his hand with the clear liquid and began to prepare himself.<p>

Sherlock felt himself strain at the sight of John stretching his walls; he was impatient, desperately wanting to be deep inside John, and the beautiful sight of his lover's fingers stretching and curling themselves just made him even harder.  
>Suddenly the sound of Sherlock's phone once again filled the room.<br>'Ignore it,' John pleaded he held Sherlock's head in place, desperately trying not to lose the sweet ecstasy currently ripping through him as he circled his sweet spot. 'Seriously, if you answer that bloody phone we are never having sex again.'  
>They waited until the noise stopped, when silence once again fell John moved up over him. He gently took Sherlock's sex into his hand then guided it so it was just brushing against his entrance. John bit his lip, took in a deep breath and lowered himself down.<br>Inch by inch, Sherlock was guided into his lover. He gasped, he had never felt anything quite so intense as he felt John clamp down around him, he felt the tightness, he felt the wet heat, he felt everything, and with it he moaned out John's name. Sherlock was actually inside John, he was as close to him as it was possible to be. Sherlock tried to regain his bearings and keep his feet on the ground, but it was impossible, so mind numbingly good.  
>John pulled Sherlock into his arms and wrapped them tightly around his thin frame. He buried his face into his neck, crushing their chests together.<br>John had wanted Sherlock inside of him for a while now, he wanted to feel Sherlock move within him. It felt so different to anything he had ever experienced. Being penetrated, having someone in your body, was much more personal than any other type of sex he had had. He had craved it, he had missed it.  
>John felt his body begin to adjust to Sherlock's impressive length, and with that he felt his body accept him and bring him in. The burn began to subside and pleasure started to take its place.<br>He rocked back and forth, fucking himself on Sherlock's sex.  
>God this was glorious.<br>John adjusted the angle so his prostate was hit with every thrust, and he felt Sherlock's hand grab his arse and draw him in yet closer. John threw his head back with wanton abandonment, screwed his eyes shut and just enjoyed himself. He felt his mouth shout out Sherlock's name over and over again, yet he didn't hear himself, too lost was he in the sensation of having Sherlock's cock thrust into him.  
>Sherlock took John's cock between his fingers and, like John had done to him so many times before, he timed his strokes with his thrusts.<br>He could see by his face and the noises he was making that John was a mess- in fact he was pretty sure the whole of Bakerford could hear him. He speeded up his strokes. Sherlock was desperate for John to cum again, though this time with his cock inside of him.  
>John was not twenty-one anymore, so he was surprised by the speed and strength his new orgasm formed inside of him. It seemed that hardly any time had past since Sherlock had nearly blown him into an early grave, though perhaps he shouldn't be surprised at all. This was Sherlock/, he seemed to control everything else, so why not his recovery time? Soon he exploded over Sherlock's chest and down his thighs, once again shouting something incomprehensible into the air.  
>Sherlock knew he wouldn't last long, not with this new feeling rushing around him, this new slice of ecstasy. He felt John tighten around him as he came, exploding everywhere and covering them with his seed. This seemed to change everything, it made everything deeper, stronger, tighter. He closed his eyes and lost himself, the thrusts lost all timing and rhythm, in graceless mess of need, Sherlock driving into John as hard as he could as fast as he could. He soon came too, though this time it was inside John.<br>When they were finished they fell against one another in absolute exhaustion, Sherlock wrapped himself around his lover and cuddled into his chest. John ran his hands through Sherlock's thick curls.  
>Neither said a word. Neither had to.<p>

* * *

><p>Lestrade snapped his phone shut with a frustrated sight and stared at the case file in his hand.<p>

He needed Sherlock's help or this thing would never get solved.  
>Lestrade trudged down to Sherlock's house, and knocked once more on Mrs Hudson's door but no one answered. He had been ringing Sherlock all afternoon but no answer there either. Lestrade figured Sherlock was probably listening to the telly too loudly, or something like that.<br>Greg didn't have the time to hang about, so he decided to risk it. He pushed down on the front door handle, and, to his relief it was open. Sherlock was home, he just knew it, he wasn't at the police station or library so where else would he be? He called out his name but the house was eerily silent, the young man was probably in his room. He knew the way upstairs, he had been in the house before, Sherlock's room was the third door on the right.  
>'Sherlock?' He called again, climbing up the stairs.<br>When there was again, no answer, he strode along to the landing and into the room, though nothing could have prepared him for what he found.  
>There were two figures lying perfectly still on the bed, naked except for the sheet that was wrapped around them.<br>There was Sherlock; he was facing away from him but there was no mistaking the mop of dark curls and whippet thin figure, then there was the other figure on the bed. Greg took a few seconds to register who it was, but he would recognise the sandy blonde hair and those set of soft features anywhere. Suddenly everything suddenly sprang into place, John and...Sherlock? Having sex? He suddenly felt sick.  
>'Oh god, I'm sorry.' he spluttered as a pair of blue eyes stared at him, wide open in horror.<br>'Greg, wait!' John shouted, but Greg couldn't wait, he couldn't be here a moment longer, he just couldn't, he wished he could un-see the scene he had just stumbled on.  
>Gregory Lestrade ran quickly out the door and into the street, covering his mouth with his hand.<br>Sherlock lay frozen on the bed, he could only watch as John leapt out of it as if he had been electrocuted.  
>'You didn't lock the door! Why didn't you lock the fucking door?' John shouted at Sherlock as he threw on his clothes. The person in question didn't answer; he stayed silent.<br>Sherlock felt sick to his stomach, his heart felt like it was going to beat out of his chest, and his blood turned to ice. John ran out the room after Lestrade but Sherlock found he couldn't move. He was so in shock that he couldn't entirely comprehend what had just happened. Now, Sherlock Holmes couldn't do anything but stare at the now empty space where Greg had stood. He heard the front door slam shut. After that the only sound came from the wind.

***cue dramatic music* I know I'm so evil for leaving it here :P Also for those of you who are a little rusty in thier European history, The Night Of the Long Knives is a series of political murders that happened in Germany between the 30th June and 2nd July 1934, which essentially destroyed all of Hitler's opposition from both sides. I included it because it was in my history exam.**

**Hope you all enjoyed this!**


	21. The Answer To All Your Fears

**Hi all! This chap is really short (by my standards anyway) but I hope it satisifies. Let me know what you think!**

**Also I cannot believe this has over 200 reviews, how frigging unbelievable is that! I'm speechless, which is a first. Also huge thank you to Lock Nelms for all her help. **

Hands On Education

Chapter 21

The Answer To All Your Fears

It crept all over him like a dull ache.

The fierce shooting pains erupted inside his chest as he ran; meanwhile, John's mind went haywire, buzzing inside of him to the extent where he thought it was going to leap out of his skull. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think, all he could do was run. Here it was, the answer to all his fears. The answer to everything he had been afraid of.  
>Someone <em>knew<em>. His mind conjured up pictures of him being flashed over the evening news. '_Tonight's headline story shocker, teacher John Watson sleeps with student. But first, over to Ellen for the weather._'

John imagined being chased out of town by an angry mob. He looked over the road to find an old lady staring at him- oh God, did she know? Had she just been told what he had done? Had Lestrade told everyone he had come across? Had he run home to Kate and told her, or possibly worse, _Sarah?_

John stopped running, his chest heaving and his mind spinning as he placed his hands on bent knees. He briefly wondered if he was going to be sick. There was no going back now; his mother used to tell him a secret was something you told one person at a time, and now his secret was out, dragged into the cold light of day, no matter how desperately he wished he could turn back the clock.

Where was Greg? He had chased after him but someone he had slipped out of sight.  
>'Greg!' he shouted desperately. Nothing. Silence. John started to run again.<br>He had no plan.  
>He didn't know what he was going to do when he found Greg- he knew what he had with Sherlock was completely unexplainable, there was no point in even <em>trying<em>. All he could do was beg his friend to keep his secret. He couldn't just let his neighbour slip away before he had a chance to hear what he had to say…. but why would he? Greg was a _police officer_, he was Sarah's friend to, and Sherlock's.

His mother also used to say hindsight was a wonderful thing, and looking back, John couldn't help but agree. Of _all_ the people who could have found them, Greg was perhaps the very worst. John Watson had no defence- he hadn't _planned_ for this, he was so sure that no one would find out about them. He figured that, if they hadn't been found by now, what would change? In the early days they were so careful, at some point in the road they had got sloppy, complacent.

God why hadn't Sherlock locked the door! It would have taken a few seconds and then they wouldn't be in this mess. All it took was one tiny mistake… and then BANG! suddenly there consequences around every corner. He had seen it in Greg's eyes the moment he had walked into Sherlock's bedroom, the sheer shock and horror and finding _him_ like that. Greg was still no-where to be seen, and John tried not to panic. God where had he _gone_? Had he gone to fetch the entire Bakerford police force to come get him?

John hated this, the feeling of complete loss of control. The house of cards had come crashing down and there was nothing he could do… and it all lay at Lestrade's door. He tried calling, he left a rambling message of Greg's voicemail begging him to ring. What if it was too late? What if it wall all too late? A few hours ago he was having mind blowing sex, and now he was facing a night in a jail cell. How did that happen so fast?

He had always spoken to Sherlock of the dangers of anyone finding out about them, and he had thought about it, sometimes, when he was alone, on a night where he couldn't sleep and all he could do was toss and turn it bed and let all his worries wash over him. But from the beginning he knew it was the skeleton in his closet; an eerie figure lying in the shadows, and now it was here, in all its twisted, ugly glory, and the true extent of what he had done finally hit him.  
>It was a taboo, perhaps the biggest taboo the teaching world had to offer.<p>

During his teacher training someone had mentioned it, but John didn't really listen. After all no one would actually _do_ that, would they? Who in their right mind would have sex with a student? It was something you read about it cheap trashy magazines; it was something that happened in films or on TV, but it never _really_ happened. Except it had happened to him. What he had done was being brought to the light. He should have stopped this, he should have stopped it before it had even begun.

John went back to his car; he would go home and see if Lestrade was there. Or maybe not, maybe he should just go straight to the police station and hand himself in, cut out the middle man and just face the music like a proper man. (Though it was a bit late to be trying to act like a proper man, John thought. He didn't let it claw at his thoughts too much)  
>'John!' Sherlock's voice called out to him in the night.<p>

John turned away, he couldn't look at Sherlock, not right now, not after what had just happened. The tight rope he had been walking on had snapped and he just wanted the world to swallow him whole, to take him deep down, right into the molten core and he would never have to see the cold light of day.

'John please, just listen to me!' The younger man pleaded as he caught up with the out-of-breath Watson. Sherlock's hair was sticky with sweat but quickly drying in the night air and his breath was streaming out of his mouth like silver steam.  
>It was obvious what he would want to say to him, that everything would be all right. That they would get through this, but he was <em>wrong<em>- Sherlock wasn't the one with everything to lose. John felt like throwing up, he felt like bending over and chucking everything up right over the pavement. His heart was going a mile a minute, and he was short of breath. Sherlock made a grab for his arm but John pulled away.

'Don't.' he hissed, 'Just don't… don't touch me.'

'But…I love you.' Sherlock whimpered.

John stood still, and shook his head. In seconds, he shoved Sherlock away with far more force then was necessary and sped off, as fast as his burning legs could carry him, as far away from Mrs Hudson's small cottage as he could.  
>Jon only turned once and saw Sherlock's figure, still numbly stood, as he ran off into the night.<p>

* * *

><p>Greg was grateful, for perhaps the first time in his marriage, to come home to an empty house. At least this way he could lose it all in peace. He stormed into the kitchen to pour himself a large glass of water to try and compose himself, but he couldn't; he took a few sips and found he couldn't taste anything, the water simply surged through his stomach and seemed to make everything worse. On top of that he felt his head throb, he rubbed his fingers against the temple but the pain lingered there like a knife.<p>

Usually coming home and seeing his wife was the best part of his day, but _now_? No, he didn't know how he would manage if Kate had been there. He needed to stop and think, he needed to compose himself. If Kate had seen him like this he would have blurted it all out and made this sorry mess even worse. He had to be calm and rational. He had to hold himself together. There was something in his mind going insane, something alien and angry disrupting the peace, buzzing about in his brain like a bee caught in a jar.

Greg Lestrade saw it again, the image he was so desperately trying to forget, an image of two figures lying side by side curled up together, a symphony of milky white skin and twisted bed sheets.

_John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John._

What the _hell_ was going on? What the hell had he just _seen?_

It just wasn't _possible_. He refused to believe it could be possible. His _friend_, someone who was probably his best friend… and Sherlock. Sherlock! A kid half his age. It just could not be true. The image in his head did not match up with what he had seen, laid out on the bed.

John Watson was _straight_, John was _married_! John was...John, he was good and noble and _kind_, he would not have an affair, he wouldn't hurt his wife so. John couldn't have been having sex with Sherlock… but then what other explanation was there? They were naked, in a bed, _together_. What else could that possibly mean? There was no innocent explanation for that, the scene was the very archetype of post coital bliss. He couldn't help but picture them together, he pictured legs wrapped round each other, lips mashing together. Hips...he shook his head violently, and inwardly scolded himself. _For god's sake man pull yourself together_!

He couldn't make up his mind on what he should do next. Greg was torn- on the one hand he knew as police officer. He was duty bound to arrest John- in fact he should have done that as soon as he found them. Once he got dressed, of course.  
>But on the other hand John was his friend. A good friend, and he just couldn't picture his friend doing something like this. His friend <em>John<em> wouldn't have an affair, wouldn't betray Sarah, wouldn't sleep with a teenager, a _male_ teenager, he just… _wouldn't_.He wanted to protect his friend, he wanted to shut his eyes and never speak of this again. But how could act oblivious, now he knew the truth.

The right part, the logical part of him told him he should ring St Barts, he should tell Sarah, he should arrest John, but could he? He needed to talk, he couldn't keep it in any longer. A loud knock interrupted things; Greg tried to lower his heart rate, but it still hammered away in his chest. After all, it didn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure out who was on the other side of the door. Lestrade opened it quickly and saw John's face staring back, his skin deathly pale. One look at John was all it took. All he could think about was him with _Sherlock_; it made him feel sick, and as quickly as he had opened the door it he immediately tried to shut it again.

'No!' John shouted, holding his arm out to prevent Greg from slamming the door in his face. 'No, please, just…' he paused uncertainty, before continuing. 'I need to come in, we need to talk, I need to explain.'

'Explain? What possible explanation is there for what I just saw?' Lestrade hissed back. Explain? How could he possibly explain this? Him, and _Sherlock_, in bed together… it just wasn't explainable- hell, it wasn't even _possible_. He led John inside anyway, despite the overwhelming urge to run. He could smell Sherlock on him; the woody, earthy, slightly spicy smell invaded his nostrils, and again he found himself wanting to vomit.

Greg sat at the sparse table. (Kate was unbelievably house proud- everything had a place, and his house looked more like a show room then an actual home. It used to bug him, that Kate would moan at the slightest mess he left behind, she would freak out when he didn't use a coaster and left a ring behind on the coffee table, or left the lid off the toothpaste. It didn't bother him now, not one bit. Besides, _she_ wasn't sleeping with a seventeen year old boy.)

Greg buried is head in his hands, running his fingers over his forehead. John didn't join him; he paced around the kitchen, holding onto the sides as if he was trying to stop himself from falling.

'Tell me I'm wrong, tell me it isn't what I think it is.' Greg pleaded. 'Tell me I'm wrong, tell me you're not sleeping with him.' The last part he didn't say, but he hoped it was evident. John sighed, and he finally sat down in a chair opposite Greg- he looked like he had aged years in mere seconds. He shook his head.

'I would love to say I'm not, but I-I… can't. You know I can't,'

There was still quite a sizeable part of Greg's brain that was still shocked by this, as if hearing it come directly from John's mouth was the real evidence he needed. He had seen them in bed together yet he still needed to hear the words- He couldn't trust his own sight any more.

'So what you are telling me is that you _did_ have sex with him?' There was defining silence, it seemed to cut through the air. It seemed to take over everything. For a long time neither spoke, neither did anything, but after what felt like an age, John nodded.

'How long?' Greg asked; inwardly. he didn't want to know, of course not, he wanted John out of his house, he wanted him to just go, he wished they were not having this conversation, he wished he had never walked in on them, he wished he would never have to think of it again, but he had to, he had to know what the hell was going on.

'The afternoon when you offered him a job at the lab,' John whispered sadly 'I don't know what happened but we just kissed. We've been together ever since.'

'But that was months ago!' Greg proclaimed, he stared at his friend completely dumbstruck.

Lestrade couldn't believe what he was hearing. He thought it was just sex, a momentary lapse in judgement, but here was John telling him they had been in a relationship! A proper relationship, for _months_! 'You mean to tell me all this time you have been screwing him behind everyone else's backs?'

John flickered his eyes up to stare directly at Greg. The wild eyes had gone, what was left was a man in absolute despair, who knew what he had done was wrong, who would not fight or yell and scream, who would come quietly and just accept the fate they had been given. Greg had seen it on enough men he had arrested to know it instinctively.

'I love him.'

'He's a kid!' Greg snapped back, not even trying to keep his voice even.

John shook his head 'It's Sherlock, you know he's different.' John stared at the ground, while Greg looked away. It was as if actually looking at each other would cause the whole world to end. Greg wished he could pretend he was having conversation with someone else, that maybe, if he looked away long enough this wouldn't be John, his friend, his next door neighbour. It would just be some stranger he was interviewing at Bakerford police station.

Greg Lestade couldn't look at his face, he couldn't spoil the illusion.

'No it isn't, John; Sherlock is a child. A _child_! Do you really think a judge is going to see it differently?'

'I tried to resist, honestly. I tried so hard, but I _couldn't_. It was just a kiss and I know I should have walked away but I loved him.'

It was strangely voyeuristic, Greg thought, to watch on as a man's life imploded.

'He was seventeen, when we started having sex.' John mumbled. Greg raised an eyebrow at him (as if the age of consent would really make a difference in this case.)

'Why John, just… _why?_' Greg was trying to wrap his head around what he had just discovered, but every passing second it just seemed to get more and more jumbled, more horrifically twisted. 'You have a gorgeous wife, good home, a job, _why _would you risk everything?'

John shrugged. 'You don't know what it was like for me- I never wanted to move here. I felt so lonely, and so _lost_, and then I met him, and he just made me feel like me again.' His blue eyes had taken on a mist that showed he was far, far away from Bakerford, over the hills and the parks and the streams. He was in his head. 'When I'm around him life is exciting again, if he is close by I just know everything is going to be okay.'

Greg glared back. 'Is that it? That's the reason you betrayed Sarah? Do you honestly think you're the only person who ever felt lost? Who ever felt like they had screwed up? It's a mid-life crisis, John, I've had one myself, but you know what people do? They buy a sports car, or join a shit cover band- they don't go around shagging their seventeen year old students!'

John was silent; he had no words to come back with. He was rather taken aback with Greg's outburst, not that he hadn't been expecting it. But a mid-life crisis? Is that really all this was?

'It's not a mid-life crisis. I love him, I can't be without him.'

Greg threw his arms in the air in exasperation. 'You can't tell me you want to carry on like this?'

John nodded. 'You don't know what it's like for me.'

'And what about me?' Greg snapped back. 'What makes you think I'm not going to ring the school right now? Or Sarah? You know I should arrest you right now, don't you?'

'But your my friend, Greg. '

It was lame, they both knew it, they both knew it was no reason for Greg to keep quiet, but… it was true, and as soon as John said the words, Greg knew.

'And so is Sarah! And Sherlock, did you think about _him_? Think he will get into Oxford if they knew this?' John looked down, ashamed, but that only seemed to fuel the fire to Greg's anger. 'For God's sake John, did you think of anyone but yourself? You know if I keep quiet I could lose my job to? Is your stupid fling worth that?'

'Its not a stupid fling. How many more times do I need to tell you that I love him?'

'And how many more time do I need to tell you this is ridiculous, as well as illegal, and immoral.' Greg jumped up from his seat and paced the length of the kitchen, stopping at the window. He leant his arm against it and looked out over the garden.

'Please Greg, just please.' John sniffled, he wiped a stray tear that had run down his cheek.

'You know what you are asking me to do is illegal?' Greg said. He suddenly felt very, very tired, and old.

He didn't become a police officer for this, to lock up a man who had made a mistake. He knew what John had done was illegal, but he also knew the magnetism Sherlock had. He had joined the police to lock up the bad guys, he felt far too tired to face locking up his friend.

'I'll keep your secret, but only because I want Sherlock to succeed, his future is not worth wrecking simply because you can't keep it in your trousers.'

John did not allow himself to breathe a sigh of relief. Life wasn't like that, free passes did not exist- he had been on this earth long enough to know that.

'And the catch?'

Greg carried on staring; he still couldn't bear to look at John, not now, not knowing what he had done, so he carried on staring outside. The view was exactly the same as it had been this morning. Yet everything had changed since then. He closed his eyes, still picturing the neatly trimmed lawn, the small smattering of flower pots and the brown fence.

'End it John, please. Just… end it while you still can.'


	22. A White Blank Page

**I probably should explain the chapter title of this chapter. One day I was listening to 'A White Blank Page' by a band called Mumford and Sons and this fic just popped into my head completely fully formed. So there you go. **

**Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to go drown my sorrows in wine because I turn 23 tomorrow and I can't bare being this old :(**

**Hands On Education**

**Chapter 22**

**A White Blank Page**

Sherlock took a long draw from the cigarette he held tightly in his fingers. Allowing the smoke to fill his lungs and the soothing power of nicotine to blanket his brain. He watched the ash form at the end of the white tube and the warm orange glow appear at the end. He took it from his lips and breathed out the white smoke into the air around him. He watched it coil above his head into the warm evening air and then evaporate from sight. Flicking the burnt out ash onto the ground from the end he waited. Starring directly in front on him at John's front door. He debated whether or not to knock on the door, John was in, but so was Sarah, so he hung around waiting for him to take Poppy out on her evening walk. He hadn't seen John since Lestrade had caught them in bed together, he hated being unsure of what would happen next. He didn't know if he should step through Johns front door because he didn't know if he belonged there any more. Maybe whatever was going to happen next would take place out on the street, on neutral ground. He took another drag on his cigarette.

'Those things are going to kill you you know.' John's warm voice cut right through him. He had been so deep in thought he hadn't noticed John was there till he stood right in front of him.

Sherlock shrugged 'Something has to.' he said flatly.

John smiled, plucking the cigarette from Sherlock's fingers and flinging it onto the road.

John walked ahead with Poppy pulling at her lead, he gestured for Sherlock to follow and the pair walked aimlessly down the street.

'What did Lestrade say?' Sherlock asked, always keen to cut straight to the point.

'He is going to keep quiet.' John sighed 'Probably worried if he says something you will loose your place at Oxford.'

Sherlock nodded 'Well that's good right?' he replied, enthusiasm flowing out of every pore, relief that they had dodged a rather big bullet flowed through him.

'Yeah, I suppose it is.' John mumbled, staring at the floor in front of them.

Sherlock looked long and hard at John, there was something John wasn't telling him, Sherlock knew it. He had bags under his eyes, and the eyes themselves were red. His hair was sticking up at one end, he looked like he hadn't slept in days.

John pulled him into an alleyway close by, despite the street being deserted. The pale bricks that surrounded them were overgrown with some kind of vine. The feeling of being with John was still like being drunk, it was still a hedonistic euphoria, the idea that he could be anyone, do anything, that he could take on the entire world was still there whenever he was with the older man. They were still just as addicted to each other as they had been it that hotel room in London. Still, Sherlock couldn't shake the feeling that the meeting with Lestrade was as simple as John was making out.

'So he isn't going to tell anyone? Not Sarah or the school?'

John shook his head, pulling Sherlock into a hug 'sssshhhh, don't spoil it.' he whispered, then he gently placed his lips on Sherlock's.

Sherlock gave a small moan, allowing John' scent and taste to take over. His lips felt so soft and so warm against him, the way they moved over him was irresistible. He felt John's hands wrap around his waist.

Sherlock pulled back, their lips making a satisfying popping sound as they parted.

'Are you sure your okay?' Sherlock asked.

John pulled away from him, walking out of the alleyway and into the quiet street.

'Just go home Sherlock, just give me some space.'

He left Sherlock standing there, he didn't speak another word.

* * *

><p>Sherlock fiddled with the focus on his microscope, not that he was really paying attention to the slide. He gave up trying to focus his attentions, staring out the window and scowling at the early evening dusk. He was still thinking about John, John had been on his mind when he walked into the lab that Saturday afternoon, and he was still there now. He was angry, he was worried and anxious and a whole other host of really not good emotions. He wanted John to be honest and tell his exactly what was going on. There was no way Lestrade was just brush this of, he was a police officer for fucks sake, they were supposed to be in this together, so why was John brushing this all off like it didn't matter, of course it mattered. Yet once again John had cast his doubts aside. Had ignored him.<p>

He knew he had a face like thunder, he could feel the heavy lines on his forehead from when they were being pulled downwards. He could feel the muscles around his eyes contort into two slits. He had tried to hide his anger all day, tried to put up a cool and indifferent expression when he was near Irene Adler, but now he couldn't stop the anger pouring out of him. His inner turmoil reflected so clearly on his face. He didn't even know how to stop it.

He heard the sharp clopping sound of Irene's absurdly high heels hitting the floor. A few seconds later her musky perfume wafted through his nose. He buried his head in his hands, he couldn't deal with Irene at the best of times, she played him as easily as a child hitting a drum, and now when he was this messed up he didn't stand a chance. Her lips were her usual blood red. Her finger nails were freshly manicured and painted the same shade. She wore a tight black dress under her lab coat.

She placed a hot mug of tea beside him and flashed her white teeth at him.

'Wouldn't do that if I were you Sherlykins, wouldn't want to get wrinkles on that pretty little face of yours.'

'Piss off' Sherlock snapped at her.

She tilted her head to look at him, she chuckled, her eyes full of mocking. 'Now now, what's got into you today.' she sang into his ear. He was screwed now, he had let out some blood and lick the shark she was she had smelt it, she was ready to pounce on him like he was a poor defenceless seal. He felt her breath in his ear and she had twisted her body round so her breasts were right in his face. Sherlock got up out of his seat and faced her.

'Leave me alone.' he hissed. She grinned at him.

'No need to be so defensive Sherlock.' She took a sip of her tea. 'Let me guess, what is up with Sherlock today.' she tapped her finger on her lip and stared up at the ceiling. 'Does it begin with J and rhymes with Ron?'

Sherlock bristled and glared at the women.

'Oh come on Shirley, do you really think you are the only person who ever fell in love with a married man?'

Irene put her mug down and came closer 'Let me guess, he keeps telling you he will leave her? Keeps saying that he will sort it all out one day? And you keep believing him, you keep saying to yourself that you wont let him walk all over you but you keep going back?' There was a note of sadness in her eyes that Sherlock had never seen before.

'He loves me' Sherlock hissed at her.

'Sure he does.' She rolled her eyes 'You keep telling yourself that. Or...' she came even closer, till her faces was just inches away from him. She fluttered her long eyelashes at him 'You could always be with someone who actually wants you.'

Before Sherlock could even blink her lips were on his, they were soft and felt all wrong. It felt so odd, being kissed by a women. He pushed her away, he didn't want this, he didn't like her perfume in his nose, he didn't like her feel or touch or anything.

'What the hell are you doing'

Irene smiled at him, she ran her hand along his thigh then along his waist till she finally rested her perfectly manicured hand the space between his legs.

'I can show you things Sherlock, I could do things to you John can only dream about.' She found his neck, kissing him hard till he felt a love bite form. She palmed him through his trousers and to his horror he felt his sex began to respond to her. He shoved her away harshly.

'I love him. I don't want you' he spat, grabbing his coat and storming out of the lab.

He ran, he ran down the streets towards home. Why was his life such a clusterfuck? One minute Lestrade finds him naked in bed and the next Irene wants to get him naked and in bed. It hurt his head. He felt a stitch his chest form, he could barely breath but he kept running. He finally came home to Mrs Hudson's cottage, slamming the door behind him he slid down the door onto the floor. He panted, leaning his head back on the door as he tried to get her breath back. He stayed there for a long time, running over what had happened in his mind till he gave up and headed to the living room, grabbing a book he settled down in a chair, he let the words seep into his brain, hoping that the words would make his forget everything, if he could just loose himself in something.

* * *

><p>Sherlock's eyes snapped up from the book he was reading as soon as the sound of the first knock shattered the quiet stillness of his house. The page number was immediately stored away into his brain as he snapped it shut and got up out of his chair. He was alone in the house again, the cottage seemed so much bigger when Mrs Hudson was not around. The emptiness was rather unnerving, he craved solitude, but without Mrs Hudson's chatter this place did not feel like a home. It had never felt like it belonged to him when he was the only one within its walls. He wished he could find somewhere that would truly feel like home, where he would truly felt like he belonged, a place of his very own where he wouldn't feel like he was intruding on someone else's life. Where he wouldn't be reliant on anyone. He imagined a small house or maybe a even flat in London, where he would be surrounded by his own things, where he could live in between cases, he could do what the hell he liked, then he cursed himself for being so ridiculously sentimental.<p>

He turned the doorknob and flung it open, a small breeze from the street waft through his hair.

'What are you doing here?' he spluttered at the figure standing in front of him.

'I just needed to see you.' John answered 'Can I come in?'

Sherlock could never say no to John, they both knew that, so the older man didn't even wait for Sherlock to reply, he just walked straight past him into the house. Striding up the stairs into his bedroom.

Sherlock watched him go, he heard the sound of John's feet pounding up the stairs. Excitement, lust, anticipation ran through him like it always did when he saw John. Except it was all override by a keen sense of dread, the uncertainty made him feel sick to his stomach. He didn't know what was going to happen now, he didn't know what John was going to say or do, he hated it more then he had hated anything else in his life. He wished they could go back to the start, he used to be able to read John so easily. Yet he knew if he had the choice he wouldn't have changed a single thing, if he could go back he still would be exactly in this spot. Thinking exactly the same thing. Irene was wrong in her assumptions of their relationship. He was determined that nothing would come between them, especially not Irene Adler.

He was loosing his mind, he knew it, a part of him was terrified to think how far he would go to keep John. Suffering doesn't make you strong, it makes you desperate.

Sherlock followed John up to his room, he would follow John to the ends of the earth, that was certain. He found John staring out of his window, he wished he could know exactly what John was thinking right now, he could deduce people sure, but he wasn't telepathic. In John's presence, the skin where Irene had touched him seemed to burn.

John turned around and pulled him into a hug. His hands travelling the expanse of his back. Sherlock sighed, all his worries seemed to just float away. He closed his eyes and savoured the feel of having John so close to him, placing his hand on John's chest so he could feel the reassuring thud of John's heart through his jumper.

'Did you want anything?' he asked, he words slightly stifled because his mouth was covered by John's shoulder.

John shook his head 'No, I just needed to see you.' he whispered. 'Remember we used to see each other just for the sake of it?'

Sherlock sighed sadly 'I wish he could be like it was.'

'Me to Sherlock, but you can't go back, you have to go forward.'

They spent a while like this, just hugging tightly and gently swaying. Sherlock held on tightly, he was afraid if he let go John would simply evaporate and he would lose him forever.

Suddenly he felt John stiffen, he pulled away from their tight embrace almost violently.

'What the hell is that on your neck?' he felt John grab his collar and pull it down, revealing the mark Irene had left on his neck a few hours ago.

'No.' John pushed him away 'No it can't be, tell me it's not, no.' he looked ill. He ran his hands through his hair and shook his head, his eyes wide with shock.

Sherlock felt himself loose the grip he had on the world, everything suddenly lurched forward and he felt incredibly claustrophobic, he felt sick, he wanted to just blurt out the truth and explain what had happened, but he couldn't find the words, he couldn't seem to engage his brain. Coherent thought had jammed somewhere in his brain and was now stuck. Sherlock looked at the floor, there was no use denying it, it was plainly clear what the mark was. John was no idiot, he wasn't so wrapped up in him that he would believe everything he told him. He was no doormat.

'It's not what it looks like.' he protested. It was the first thing that came into his brain. The grey mattered still stuttered and coughed as he tried to get it to work. He was a genius yes, but when it came to John he seemed to loose the ability to think. John was a glitch, a bug in his hard drive.

'Not what it looks like?' John yelled back. 'You have a fucking _love bite_ on your neck and you tell me it's not what it looks like?' he jabbed his finger into Sherlock's chest.

Of course, the pathetic excuse Sherlock gave wouldn't wash. It seemed just to make John more angry.

'Irene Adler.'

'Irene Adler?' John spluttered. 'Irene Adler did _that _to you?' he wrinkled his nose up as if Sherlock was something rotten he had stepped in 'Why?' he grabbed hold of Sherlock's wrist and dragged him closer, he was right in Sherlock's face, Sherlock could feel his breath on his face, he could see the dark spot in the middle of John's pupil.

'I was angry.' Sherlock snapped back.

'You were angry? So you went and whored yourself out to Irene Adler?' he tightened his grip in Sherlock's wrist, the younger man tried to pull away but John kept his exactly where he was.

'Because you can really talk.' Sherlock rolled his eyes. He saw the words hit John, prising him apart.

'I was upset' he continued 'she told me you were never going to leave Sarah and that I should be someone who wanted to be with me. Then she came onto me. There, that's the truth, happy now?'

Silence fell as Sherlock watched the words sink in, John still looked angry, but there was a part of him that looked like he was about to burst into tears.

'Your upset.' Sherlock murmered.

'Of course I'm bloody upset Sherlock.'

Sherlock was confused as he watched a small tear fall down John's cheek, why was John crying? Why did what Irene did matter? He loved John, John knew this, so why was this happening?

'Why?'

John shook his head, he sighed and bit on one of his fingernails. 'Did you like it?' He murmured.

'I'm gay!'

'That's not what I asked.' John wiped his nose with the back of his hand, sniffing and trying to block the tears from falling.

Suddenly the penny dropped 'You're jealous. That's why your upset, you want to know if I like the idea of someone else.'

John nodded 'This is so messed up.' he mumbled.

Sherlock took his hand in his. He kissed the top of John's forehead lovingly. 'I don't, it's just you I love. It's just you I want touching me like that.'

John pulled Sherlock into his arms, wrapping them tightly around him and bringing them together.

'I know its hard Sherlock.'

Sherlock smiled, of course he knew how hard it was, he had known that all along, but he wouldn't change it, he wouldn't give John up for the world.

'You know what she's like.' Sherlock spoke into the still air of the room, the tense atmosphere of before had evaporated. John had believed him, suddenly nothing else mattered

'I know Sherlock, I know.'

Sherlock felt John's lips on him, kissing him fiercely. Trying to re-establish their connection, trying to reset the balance.

Sherlock let out a small moan as John pulled him closer, he felt John's tongue run over his bottom lip and he opened up for him eagerly. His tongue ran along John's and once more Sherlock savoured John's taste on his lips.

He gently tugged on John's arm, pulling him over until he felt the edge of his bed hit his leg, he fell backwards on his bed.

'If Irene really pisses you off that much, then get rid of her.' Sherlock said darkly.

John didn't reply, he didn't have to. They both knew what John wanted to do, Sherlock was simply taking up the initiative, but the idea, the need, was all John's. He straddled Sherlock's hips, placing each hand on either side of Sherlock's head. He leaned to the side till he was face to face on the dark mark that Irene had left on Sherlock's neck.

He knew it was fucked up, he knew what an idiot he was, how dare he get so worked up with Sherlock over this when he was still with Sarah, but he couldn't stop his brain from thinking it. He knew it was wrong, he knew it was a complete mess but he just couldn't help it. It was completely hypocritical of him to be the one to get angry over the subject of fidelity. But when it came to Sherlock, reason and logic just went completely out the window. All he could do was think about Sherlock with someone else, he knew Sherlock would not have responded, wouldn't have like it or even had wanted it to happen, but the idea of someone else's hands on Sherlock made him sick. Sherlock was his, fucking _his. _

He kissed over the mark Irene had left, he suckled on the skin till the mark he left was indistinguishable from Irene's. He felt so much better now Irene's presence was gone.

Sherlock closed his eyes as John kissed the soft skin on his neck, he knew exactly what John was doing, he wanted it, he wanted it to be John's mark on him, not Irene's. He didn't want to feel like Irene was still on him, the burning on his skin was lifted now he could no longer feel her on his neck.

Sherlock took John's hand and placed it between his legs, hoping he wouldn't be able to feel her there to. John took the hint and began to palm him through the thick material of his jeans. He still worked on his neck, but the hand between his legs worked him till his cock became thick and heavy.

John pulled his t shirt up to his shoulders, then began teasing his nipples with his tongue. Sherlock groaned and wriggled as John continued his ministrations. Sherlock bucked his hips trying to get more of John's touch.

Sherlock could feel John's smirk as he became totally undone.

'Hand' John asked, squeezing his palm 'or mouth' he licked Sherlock's nipple.

Sherlock groaned 'John please.' he wailed.

'Which one?' John grinned at Sherlock's distress.

'Mouth, oh god mouth.'

John undid Sherlock's belt and pulled down his jeans and underwear down to his knees. He kissed along Sherlock's stomach and thighs and then licked a trail along Sherlock's cock. He licked the tip, teasing the slit with his tongue. Sherlock raised his hips instinctively, trying to get more of John's mouth on him. John continued to tease him without mercy. Licking and kissing and teasing till pre cum leaked out of the tip. John put his index and middle fingers in his mouth and sucked them, coating them in his saliva. He took Sherlock deep inside his mouth a sucked him, Sherlock moaned loudly grabbing hold of John's head with his hands. Though John wasn't quite done yet, as he continued to bestow ecstasy on Sherlock with his mouth and tongue, he ran the back of his hand down Sherlock's thigh, he teased Sherlock's opening, till he felt Sherlock's cock twitch violently.

'John, oh John' Sherlock moaned out. John grinned, sliding his fingers inside Sherlock's tight heat and then curled them till he felt Sherlock's sweet spot. Sherlock let out a loud groan and came down John's throat.

John swallowed his essence, savouring the taste of Sherlock in his mouth. He came up and kissed Sherlock hard on the mouth, letting Sherlock taste himself.

He felt Sherlock's hand rub his dick through his trousers. He groaned out his lovers name as Sherlock pull his belt open then pull them down till his bulging member was revealed into the warmth of Sherlock's bedroom.

Sherlock kicked off his trousers and wrap his legs around John. He pulled out a condom and a bottle of lube from his bedside drawer.

John ripped the foil packet open and rolled the johnny over himself, he quickly applied the lube, he was in such a haste he was clumsy enough to get most of it on the bed spread he didn't care, he needed to be inside Sherlock so badly.

John grabbed hold of Sherlock's hip as he guided himself into his lovers thin body. Sherlock's no longer fought him, it dragged him down deeply into his lover without fuss. John rolled his hips into the wet heat, he felt Sherlock tighten his thighs till he was locked between his legs. Within seconds they found a rhythm. Sherlock bringing up his hips to meet John's movements.

Irene could never have Sherlock like this, John thought to himself, no one could, no one but him. It was a testament to how strange their relationship was, that one minute they were having a row, and the next they were having sex.

When the were done they collapsed in a pile of sweat and limbs. The bed was cramped with the both of them, though John liked the closeness it brought. Sherlock settled into the softness of John's chest.

'I'm yours John, I'll always be yours.'

'I know love. I know.'

* * *

><p>Irene Adler stormed into her flat, she threw off her heels and coat and let he bag drop to the floor. She had rarely felt this pissed off, normally she was entirely in control, but she had never lost in quite so spectacularly. She couldn't believe it, how dare this, this, <em>boy <em>do this to her? She couldn't believe that she had lost him to a dreary biology teacher. How dare he make her loose her cool. All her life, ever since she could remember she had always got what she wanted, so how come she didn't have him?

She wanted revenge. She wanted payback, if she couldn't get what she wanted then why should anyone else?

She pulled out her phone, there was only one man who she wanted to speak to now. Finding the number quickly she hit the call button and waited. She bit her lip and she heard the ringing sound on the other side. She waited for what felt like hours, till finally he picked up.

'Hello.' A smart voice answered.

'Hi, Mycroft, it's Irene.'


	23. Knives Out

******Hello, no big authors note from me this time. Just a big fat thank you for reading :) **

**Hands On Education.**

**Chapter 23**

**Knives Out. **

_'Hello Mycroft, it's Irene.'_

When Mycroft Holmes was four years old a girl with dark brown hair and a wicked grin pushed him off a slide. She snapped that this was her slide and little boys were not allowed. Mycroft ran home in tears. He loved that slide, the deep red metal bars and sharp silver. He returned the next day with a bag of penny sweets and a determination to strike a deal with the young girl. She agreed, one bag of penny sweets for one summer's use and so the slide was returned to him. She then asked him in a sweet voice if he wanted to be friends. Mycroft was utterly captivated.

Now, over two decades later, and the same girl was bringing him back to the town he had escaped from. He had left his flat at dawn, work could wait, they could do without him for a few days. He hadn't had a day off in a very long time, so it came with some shock to his colleagues when he requested time off. Work was a drug to him, he lived for it, he breathed for it. He was currently clawing him way up the slippery ladder. He went to dinners, he attended operas, he did everything in his power to make connections. To figure out who was useful and cast aside who was not. He was going to make it, he wasn't going to let anything stand in his way. He told everyone he was working in a small section of the British government, a unnecessary and unimportant office job, a tiny insignificant errand boy, but anyone could see that was untrue. He was young yes, but he was better then everyone. All the other men and women didn't compare to him. He had even called the prime minister himself an idiot. Twice. He was going to the top, right to the top and he wouldn't stop climbing till there was no where else to go. He was determined that nothing would stand in his way.

This was the plan and he was sticking to it, all he had to do was sort this little mess out and then he could come back to his new life in London. Sherlock had gotten into this mess, and once again Mycroft would dig him out. He wished he could just forget all about the small town, but it was clear his brother needed him. His love for his brother outweighed everything else. He had no doubt Irene was telling him the truth, she couldn't be trusted with anything, but she would never actually lie to him. He wished he knew why Sherlock had done what he did, for gods sake could he not be left alone for five minutes? Mycroft was tired of picking up the pieces of Sherlock's impulsive actions, he wanted Sherlock to learn how to look after himself rather then seeing him as some kind of protector or bodyguard. Sherlock would have to learn how to live in the real world. He wished he could simply erase their pasts, start afresh somewhere, maybe he should, maybe it was the only way. Sherlock would not be pleased to see him, he made it clear he hated him, but Mycroft had no regrets at leaving him behind. He had to leave, and he certainly didn't abandon Sherlock the way his younger brother claimed. He sent money in the post, he even pulled strings with Irene and Gregory Lestrade to give him lab work, what more could he have done?

He flinched when he relived the conversation he had had with Irene. It made him sick to think of his brother right now. All he could think about was how low Sherlock had sunk, he had gone too far this time. It was base, it was immoral, it was disgusting. It was bad enough to even think of his brother having sexual relations, but this? This was vulgar. An affair, with a married man? Cheap, trashy, filthy. He was determined to bring the Holmes name back to its former glory. He had spent hours researching and slaving over his Victorian ancestors, every single one of them was a remarkable man. He had seen his father bring the family name down into the gutter, and he was determined to wipe off the mud and make it shine. Sherlock would not get in the way. He would make sure men spoke of his name with awe and respect, and how could that happen when his little brother was infatuated by a biology teacher? His family name would certainly not be susceptible to idle gossip, he was going to make sure of it.

He kept his car in the same lane, it was early enough where he could stick to the middle lane of the motorway without causing disruption. There was a few other cars dotted about here and there, but apart from them it was utterly deserted. He saw a sign indicating Bakerford was less then forty miles away. He would be there soon.

The soft voice on radio four wafted through the car, a woman read out the morning headlines. His ears pricked in interest, he listened intently to the news the British public was allowed to hear. He smiled to himself went it ended, it seemed he had been successful in his attempts to keep the events in Peru under wraps. That was worthy of a promotion. He felt himself climb another notch, soon he would reach the sky, soon he could look down and see the scurrying ants below. Soon.

When the news was over he once again thought of his little brother and that, that man. He couldn't even bring himself to utter him name. He couldn't stop thinking of it, it was a prison he was locked inside, endlessly thinking of who seduced who, why, why was this allowed to happen? why didn't someone say no? why did they ignore the line that was never crossed? Why. He couldn't help from running through all the possible scenarios. All the possible outcomes. He didn't worry though, he would soon put an end to it. He would get what he wanted though, he always did. He would get his brother back.

Mycroft Holmes was many things, cool, calm, collected, unflappable, unstoppable, but that was all undone whenever his brother was involved. When their mother was killed in that accident it was up to Mycroft to take over everything, it just was not fair. Sherlock being the youngest was allowed to fall apart, he remembered his father telling him the news, of the ice and the crash. Telling him he would have to be strong for Sherlock, then as they grew up and his father disappeared down a bottle, Mycroft had to take over as father. He made sure the bills were paid, he tried to keep them above water, did the shopping and the washing and the cooking, he sorted out the funeral arrangements and told everyone of his beloved mothers passing. He made sure Sherlock did his homework, went to school, took a bath, cleaned his room. He was the one who explained why his voice was breaking and why he was growing body hair. His teenage years were ripped from him. He saw his friends with their carefree lives and wished so desperately he could be just like them. Now, once again he was going to have to look after Sherlock. Sherlock who had it so easy. Sherlock never had to worry that they were behind on the bills, Sherlock never watched as his father drank away every last drop of the money his mother had left behind. Thank god the mortgage had been paid of or they would have been homeless years ago.

Maybe Sherlock had done this to spite him? Which was infantile and childish, honestly, he had gone to Oxford to build a life for himself, a life that was his and his alone. He had always intended to come back for Sherlock but for once he wanted to live for himself. Was that really so much to ask? Was that really so awful that Sherlock had to do this? His father could be a bully yes, he had seen him hit Sherlock a few times when Sherlock was being difficult, but never hard enough to cause serious injury, and if Sherlock actually behaved himself for once it wouldn't happen. His father had a short fuse. They both knew it, and Sherlock was always pushing him too far. Still, he didn't understand the look of abject fear in Sherlock's eyes when he told him he was leaving.

Irene told him Mrs Hudson had taken Sherlock in, which was a good sign. Mrs Hudson was a good woman, he should have asked her to look after Sherlock right from the start, that was a mistake, maybe if he had done that this whole thing would never have happened. If he had been thinking properly, rather then daydreaming all day about university life he could have seen that. Maybe then he could have stopped Sherlock from seeking solace in the arms of his biology teacher.

He wondered how Sherlock would find Oxford, it had been like a dream to Mycroft, but then again Mycroft made sure to be seen with the right people. To make friends with those that could help him, to go to all the right places and do the right thing. It's what had got him to where he was now, he made sure to know all the right people. Sherlock however was far more reckless, still, university life would do him the world of good. And getting away from Bakerford and a certain John Watson would be in his best interest. If there was one thing Mycroft was certain of it was that he knew what was in Sherlock's best interest.

Bakerford Ten Miles.

A sign shone out of the gloom. He started to recognise the fields he passed and the spaces he drove through. He saw a large farm which indicated the entrance to his birthplace. He was back. He drove and drove till houses started to bunch together and the roads shortened. He past the shops, he past the cinema, he past St Bartholomew's school, then the library, until finally he stopped outside Mrs Hudson's cottage. He put the handbrake on and turned off the engine. The loud whirring sound that had accompanied him since London died. He suddenly felt exhausted, the drive had been long and arduous and he hadn't stopped once, not for petrol or coffee or the toilet. He ran a hand through his hair and gave himself a few minutes to compose himself. He ran through what he would say, what he would do. Of course it would all go to custard as soon as he saw Sherlock's face, but it comforted him to feel in some way prepared for the day ahead. One day, maybe two, he would stay long here, he just wouldn't

He climbed out of his car and closed the door gently. It was an expensive car, and being a young male the insurance was astronomical. The classic jag was his pride and joy, the one indulgence he had outside the office. It was his stress relief. He spent the weekends waxing and polishing it and driving it around London with no destination especially in mind. He sighed and rubbed his forehead, he really needed to get a girlfriend. There was a trainee PA in his office, very pretty, he would take her out to dinner, that could be his treat when all this was finished.

When he couldn't distract himself with classic cars and pretty PA's any more he brushed some imaginary dust off his suit and went up the neatly trimmed garden path. He knocked, three times, sharply on the door and waited. He was about to knock again when there was a shuffling sound and the distinctive noise of a key being turned in a lock. The door swung open and he was greeted by the sight of Mrs Hudson wrapped in a bright purple dressing gown.

'Mycroft' she squealed and immediately pulled him into a big hug. Mycroft winched as Mrs Hudson crushed his ribs.

'Hello Mrs Hudson.' he used his best and most charming tone.

'Goodness, I'm just making breakfast for Sherlock and I, would you like some?'

Mycroft's stomach gave a loud grumble and he realised he was famished 'That would be lovely.' Breakfast? Was he really so early? He checked his watch, if this was a normal day he would be well into his second meeting by now. Maybe the ordinary did things differently. Maybe they actually slept.

He wondered into the kitchen and saw Sherlock scowling at him. His younger brother was still dressed in his star trek pyjamas. Despite his hair needing a cut the way it always did he could tell living here had done him good. He was still rail thin but didn't look quite so gaunt, there was some colour to his cheeks and he didn't look quite as lifeless as he had done when Mycroft had last seen him. _Mrs Hudson's_ influence was good for him. What he was seeing was only Mrs Hudson's work.

'What are you doing here?' Sherlock snapped at him, his face still full of thunder.

Mycroft sighed, it was the warmest welcome he could have hoped for.

'Having breakfast, clearly.' he replied.

Mrs Hudson came in a placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. He took a large gulp, welcoming the burn he felt on his tongue. He had been driving for hours, coffee was now his greatest friend. Immediately he felt more human. He could hear the sizzle of sausages coming from the kitchen and his mouth watered.

'You're looking very well brother.' he continued. Sherlock glared.

'I see you are getting fat in your old age, you have put on at least five pounds.'

'Sherlock!' Mrs Hudson chastised him 'How dare you say that to Mycroft, apologise right now.'

He mumbled sorry but as soon as Mrs Hudson's back was turned he spat out his tongue, which Mycroft thought rather unnecessary as it was plainly clear Sherlock hadn't meant it.

When Mrs Hudson was back in the kitchen Sherlock took a large mouthful of coffee and scowled at him once again. 'What exactly are you doing here?'

'You know why.' Mycroft answered calmly. He saw a flash of panic in Sherlock's eyes, which soon disappeared. He quickly got up and left the table. He heard loud stomping on the stairs and the slamming of a door.

'Dear god what's happened now?' Mrs Hudson asked as he placed a large plate of eggs, sausages and toast in front of him.

Mycroft licked his lips and grabbed a knife and fork. 'Just leave him be.'

He chatted with Mrs Hudson quietly as he ate his breakfast. He talked about Oxford, what university life was like, what Sherlock should expect from it, he skirted round the exact details of his job as best he could. He listened intently to Mrs Hudson's neighbourly gossip, something he found strangely fascinating. He kept exclaiming 'oh really!' 'Well I never' 'you don't say' with enough enthusiasm to rival a housewife. When he was done he thanked Mrs Hudson profusely for the meal and wiped his mouth smartly with a napkin.

'I think I will go and speak to Sherlock now, probably best if we are left alone.'

Mrs Hudson nodded solemnly 'I'll just do my knitting, Mrs Ellis is expecting twins' Mycroft nodded and headed to the stairs.

He called Sherlock's name but there was no answer, not that he had expected one. He kept on calling for Sherlock as he walked up the stairs and across the landing. He had forgotten to ask where Sherlock's room was, so he had to open a number of doors before he found his younger brother slumped on his bed.

'Congrats, you found me, now it's my turn to look for you. Would you like me to count to a hundred or fifty? Not many hiding places though for someone as large as you so you are going to have to use your imagination.' Sherlock sang sarcastically.

'Sherlock stop being so childish.' Mycroft snapped back.

Sherlock lifted his head up to look at him, his grey eyes bore into him, Mycroft felt himself being taken apart, deduced, and put back together again. Mycroft looked around the room, it was a mess, there were books, papers and clothes everywhere.

'Why are you here?' Sherlock hissed 'You hate it here, why are you back?'

Mycroft exhaled and shoved his hands into his pockets 'You know exactly why, I'm here to fix this unimaginable mess you have got yourself into.'

'Irene told you, didn't she?' Sherlock spat.

'It doesn't matter who told me, jesus Sherlock what the hell were you thinking? Getting involved with a married man like this?'

'You don't know anything about it.' Sherlock hissed back, he got up off the bed and jabbed a finger into Mycroft's shoulder 'I love John, and he loves me and that's all that matters. You don't know anything, you've never been in love in your entire life have you?' he questioned him accusingly 'Now you are here, sticking your great fat beak where it isn't wanted.'

'Sherlock I am your brother.' Mycroft protested 'I'm here to look after you.'

'Look after me? Sherlock laughed 'You want to look after _me_? Well where were you Mycroft? Where were you when I really needed you? You have been gone so long I had almost forgotten what an absolute twerp you are, you ran away Mycroft, you ran away and left me so don't think for one moment you have the right to tell me what to do.'

'I had to leave' Mycroft interrupted 'You know I had to leave, you would have done exactly the same thing, I know you hate me, but don't think for one moment I will let you carry on with this. It's gone far enough and it has to stop right now.'

'I love him.'

'You are seventeen!' Mycroft threw his arms in the air 'You're seventeen and in lust. I know what its like, having sex for the first time, you think you are in love but your not. You are just letting your emotions get in the way of being rational.'

There was a long pause. Sherlock crossed his arms and glared at him. Then he turned to look out of the large window.

'You think you know everything, you think you do but you don't.' He sniffed. 'Father, he was afraid of you but he wasn't afraid of me. You think you know what it was like for me when you left but you don't.'

Mycroft was confused, he didn't know what Sherlock was trying to tell him.

'You are angry and confused, I know.'

Sherlock shook his head 'No, stop trying to tell me you understand because you don't'

Mycroft was exacerbated and rather exhausted by the whole thing. It was only the morning and already he wanted to run. Maybe it was a mistake to come back? He quickly shook his head, no, he had to help his little brother.

'Sherlock, one day you are going to meet a man, you are going to fall in love a build a life together, but that man will not be John Watson.'

He left the pressure cooker of the room before things really did become ugly. He left before either of them would say something they regretted. He left Sherlock to stew in there, he hoped he would calm down and see sense.

There was no other option.

* * *

><p>He didn't know why he was doing this, but he had to see it. He had to face it, he couldn't let it lie dormant. He didn't want to return, but he wouldn't hide away like a coward. Something was wrong, Sherlock had hinted at it but he had to find the truth. And he had a feeling it would be here.<p>

He looked up at the dilapidated building he had once called home. His childhood home was falling apart. It looked so ugly and unkempt. The garden was overgrown, the windows unwashed, weeds everywhere and there were large cracks in the brickwork. It looked like it hadn't been lived in for years. His mother would turn in her grave if she could see the house she had loved so much like this. It had once been so magnificent, it had gleamed, it was a house his ancestors would be proud of. Big and imposing, and now it was just rusting away.

He dug his house key out of his pocket, he felt a pang of sadness to think of what his home had turned into. He felt a wave of guilt run through him. He should have fought, he should have been able to save his family. He had let his mother down, she would be so bitterly disappointed if she were still alive and able to see what he, Sherlock, her husband and her beloved house had become. She would hate them, she would hate them all.

He turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open. An overwhelming smell of must hit him, for a moment he thought maybe the place had been abandoned.

'Hello' he called out, breaking the oppressive silence. Nothing. He walked around, he took in the peeling wallpaper and stained carpets. All the pictures on the wall had gone, the bannisters had a thin film of dust. He coughed, it stank.

'Hello' he called again.

'Who is it?' he jumped when he heard his fathers voice coming from the living room. 'Mycroft?'

'Father?' He walked into the living and saw his father lying on a sofa. He covered his mouth over his hand, the room was dark, the curtains drawn and all the lights were off. It stank of sweat and dried vomit. Beers can littered the floor and the TV flickered. The sound of whatever awful quiz show his father was watching filling the room. A urine soaked mattress was pushed to the side and all of his fathers possessions were piled in mounds over the floor. It took all of a few moments for Mycroft to realise his father was drunk. He hadn't washed for weeks, he was still fully dressed but the clothes were wrinkled and dirty. His father swayed from side to side, he belched.

'What you doin 'ere?'

'I'm here for a few days.' he replied. His father nodded but Mycroft doubted he had really heard what he was saying. His eyes were blood red, his teeth dark yellow, they would turn black soon.

'I've just seen Sherlock.'

His father laughed 'Really? I aint seen im for months.'

Mycroft nodded again guilt ran through him, god why had he left Sherlock here to deal with this, he was a child, Mycroft should never have left him alone, he should have taken Sherlock with him, for the first time the full extent of his fathers illness was shown to him. For the first time in his life Mycroft felt utterly hopeless. He grabbed a can of beer and opened it. Mycroft felt sick as he watched him glug it down.

'Don't you think you've had enough?'

'Fuck off' his father spat back. 'Where is Sherlock anyway?' His father slurred.

'At a friends, he is safe.'

His father laughed 'You know his boyfriend came round? He threatened to kill me' he began to cough violently then laughed again 'he deserved it though.'

Mycroft snapped his head up 'What did you just say?'

'I said' he laughed again 'he deserved it.'

'What are you talking about?' Mycroft was confused, he couldn't make any sense of what the drunk was saying, not that was really a surprise.

'Sherlock, I was his fault your mum died, so I was just punishing him. Apparently his boyfriend didn't like it. Fucking pansy.'

'Punishing him?'

'Yeah' his father laughed again 'come on My, you blame Sherlock just as much as I do.'

'It wasn't his fault.'

'Liar! It was his fault, if it wasn't for him she would still be here. It's his fault, it's all his faut' his father barked back, then he laughed again 'Forgiven him though have you? That's your mother's influence that is.' he sighed, taking another large drink from the can, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve then crushed it between his fingers and threw it onto the floor. 'You should have seen it, what I did, what I did to make him pay. I did it night after night so he would never forget. I made him bleed, I made him squeal like a girl.' he laughed. 'I even used her riding crop once, thought you would appreciate that. You would have loved it, to see all the blood come out of him. Hear him howl in pain, begging me to stop, god it was like music to my ears.'

'Oh god' Mycroft exclaimed, 'No. No tell me you didn't' he covered his mouth with his hand again and stared wide eyed at his laughing father.

'Don't tell me you didn't want to hurt him for what he did? An eye for an eye Mycroft. An eye for an eye.'

Mycroft didn't wait to hear what his father had to say next. He left, he ran out of the room and out of the house and burst out into the street. He bent over and dry heaved as the penny finally dropped.

_An eye for an eye Mycroft. An eye for an eye._

The fear in his eyes when Mycroft had left.

_Father, he was afraid of you but he wasn't afraid of me. You think you know what it was like for me when you left but you don't._

Sherlock had been abused and what had he done? He had left. He had just left him. Oh god what had he done?

'Sherlock' he spluttered 'oh god Sherlock I'm so sorry.'

He got into his car and drove back to Mrs Hudson's, he nearly crashed he was in such a state. How could he have done this? He hated himself. 'it should have been me' he wailed 'it should have been me.' Sherlock had always been so sensitive and fragile. He could have taken it, Sherlock couldn't. How had he missed it? John hadn't, John Watson was obviously the boyfriend who had rescued him. Who had done what he had failed to do. Mycroft was the one that was supposed to protect Sherlock, who's job it was to look after him. Not John bloody Watson.

Mycroft hated him. His brother was vulnerable and the man had taken advantage of him. How could he? How dare he. Well he wasn't going to let this happen again. He would fix this, he would make everything right and he would make it all up to Sherlock. He had failed him once, he would not fail him again. He was going to take him home, he was going to take Sherlock back to London and everything was going to be okay.

He slammed his foot on the brakes and parked haphazardly outside the cottage. He ran indoors and as soon as he found Sherlock he threw his arms round the younger man and pulled him into a tight hug.

'Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me what father was doing?'

Sherlock did not respond to his hug. 'You made it clear that you didn't want me around.' Mycroft deserved that, he deserved Sherlock's hatred, but he would make it up to him.

'I didn't know. I'm so sorry.'

Sherlock placed his arms on Mycrofts shoulders and pushed him away 'I wanted you to come back but you didn't. You didn't come back.' He said flatly.

'So you went with Mr Watson, of course.' Mycroft thought to himself.

'Sherlock, that documentary about otters you wanted to watch is starting.'

'Coming Mrs Hudson.'

He left Mycroft standing there. Mycroft's mind was racing. Sherlock may have given up on their relationship but he would not. Sherlock used to love him, he used to respect him. He would make him feel that way again.

The resentment he had felt for Sherlock for needing him so badly had evaporated, Sherlock had needed him, and Mycroft had let him down. Now he knew the truth he realised what a selfish idiot he had been. Sherlock was only a child after all, and Mycroft had let him down so badly, but he would make things right again.

He couldn't save his mother, or his father, or his childhood home, but he could save Sherlock.

He left the cottage once more, to the one place he thought he could never bring himself to tread. A quiet suburban house in a quiet suburban street. He knocked on the door and heard a dog barking. A spaniel of some sort. Mycroft could tell by the tone of the noise.

The man that opened the door was not who he was expecting. He was shorter, plainer, he wore a shapeless yet cozy looking jumper. Mycroft had wondered if he had the right house.

'Hello, can I help you?' the man asked.

'Are you John Watson?'

The man nodded, much to Mycrofts amazement. He had expected someone who was capable of capturing the heart of his brother to be different. He thought they would be just like Sherlock himself, tall, sharp cheekbones, stunningly beautiful, impeccable fashion sense. John Watson was not bad looking by any means, he was just so...ordinary. He felt queasy and nauseous at the thought of this man being intimate with his little brother.

'Can I come in?'

John raised an eyebrow, as anyone would at a stranger asking to come into one's home, but he stood by and let Mycroft in anyway.

'tea?' he offered.

'yes please. May I have a seat?' John nodded and led him into a small kitchen. He caught a picture hanging on the wall of him with an arm around a very good looking young woman, the fact so a close and intimate picture was still on the wall meant the wife was still around in ignorant bliss.

John placed the tea he had made in front of him, then the sugar bowl. Mycroft helped himself.

'Letting a stranger into your house isn't very wise.'

John gave him a crooked smile 'Good thing your not a stranger then isn't it Mycroft.'

Mucroft sipped his tea calmly. 'How do you know who I am?'

John shrugged 'Lucky guess. Sherlock told me he had a brother, then there is of course the family resemblance.'

'Family resemblance?'

'You're tall, posh and insufferable. Obviously a Holmes.'

Mycroft smiled, obviously this John Watson was not as dumb as he looked.

'Forgive me for intruding on you. It's just, I've been hearing some rather alarming rumours.'

John stayed perfectly still, just quietly drinking tea as if nothing had happened.

'You don't deny it then? You don't deny having a sexual relationship with my brother?'

John shook his head, but he did not look away as Mycroft spoke.

'No, I'm not denying it.'

Mycroft felt like getting angry, he felt like shouting at John for doing this. But he was Mycroft Holmes, he did not shout and scream. He would end their relationship, that would be enough.

'What you have done is a disgrace.' he said coolly 'It has to stop, it has to stop right now. I'm going to take him home with me to London, I will take him away from Bakerford and you and I will make sure he has an amazing life, I will give him everything he needs and I will make sure he never even speaks your name ever again, and do not think for one moment I will let you get in the way.'

John took another sip of his tea, 'Strange isn't it, you trying to claim the moral high ground when you left him alone to live with a monster.'

'I didn't know.' Mycroft bristled 'And don't you dare try and compare us, I'm not a married man. I'm not promised to someone then sleeping around with someone half my age.'

Mycroft added another spoonful of sugar to his tea then stirred it.

'If you get in my way I will crush you, I will tell your wife, the authorities, the school the police everyone. If you keep me from Sherlock I will _destroy _you.'

John lowered his eyes in defeat. 'I love him.' he mumbled, staring at him, his eyes boring into him, his shoulders slumped down giving him the appearance of someone much smaller.

'And you think that will save you?' Mycroft raised a quizzical eyebrow.

John shook his head 'No, but I just wanted you to know.'


	24. Me You And Everything We Knew

**Hello everyone I have a new update for you! Other news I am now on tumblr, I have only been on it for a day so right now its just a few shameless relblogs of Cumberbatch, just look up Marlboro Blanc and you will find me.**

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Hands On Education

Chapter 24

Me, You, And Everything We Knew

Sherlock couldn't sleep. He had snapped his eyes open some hours previously and had been wide awake ever since. Dawn was now beginning to settle over Bakerford, it had been pitch black when he woke yet now a blueish tinge lit his room, it made the small space look bleak and cold. He squinted his eyes at the gap in his curtains, watching the light filter through. Clutching the duvet between his fingers and burying his body into the mattress. It would be a little while yet before the house stirred, he enjoyed this time in the morning, knowing everyone else was asleep. He felt like he could think, just lie there in the warm and think. Mycroft was in the room opposite, occasionally he could hear the sound of small snores shattering the still calm. He didn't want to get up, he wanted to stay exactly where he was till the end of time. He didn't feel like facing today.

Once more he scowled at a large black blob that took over his carpet. The suitcase had appeared sometime last night, probably out of the boot of Mycroft's car. It was new, so new in fact Mycroft hadn't even bothered taking the tag off. Sherlock hated the retched thing with a passion. He refused to even acknowledge it's existence. He was going nowhere, absolutely nowhere. It struck him very early on when Mycrofts arrived that this wasn't so much a visit as a rescue party, but if Mycroft thought he was going with him he had another thing coming. He was staying here, pure and simple. Mycroft wanted him to go to London that very afternoon, but he wasn't having it. If this had been a year ago he would have jumped at the chance, going to London, getting out of Bakerford, being with Mycroft. He would only ever admit it in his darkest moments, but he had always admired his older brother, a part of him had died when Mycroft went away. But so much had changed, and Sherlock knew you could never go back. The love and admiration he had once felt for Mycroft had turned into bitter resentment. He decided to let John sort this all out. John would talk to Mycroft, John would tell him to piss off. John would keep him here, there was no doubt about it. He would not go to London, he just wouldn't. He belonged here, with John.

Mycroft had abandoned him, now he would have to deal with the consequences. If his older brother cared for him as much as he claimed he wouldn't have left in the first place. He couldn't just drop in and act like his lord and saviour when it suited him. Why now anyway? He was going to Oxford in September, why would one summer make any difference? This wasn't about Mycroft wanting him around, this was purely him trying to get him away from John.

He heard the sound of Mycroft moving about in the next room. He always seemed to be up ridiculously early. Sherlock pulled his duvet even tighter around himself, he was sweltering, but he didn't mind, being trapped here in this little cocoon, it was nice and peaceful. However the peace never lasted for long. His brain never gave him much rest before it started up again. He screwed his eyes shut trying to stop his brain from sending him into madness. He tried to hold onto the peace as it whirred and buzzed about inside his skull. He shoved his hands over his ears and tried not to be swallowed up by the silence.

He lay there, being tormented by his own mind till his room filled with light. Till the heat from the sun filled every corner of his room, a new day was upon him. He suddenly remembered lying in bed at the start of the new school year. He wondered what would happen if he could go back in time and tell his old self all that was about to happen to him. He wondered what his old self would say, he probably wouldn't say anything useful, his old self didn't understand the torment of being in love.

Maybe he should just run? Run away from everything. Mycroft was in charge of his finances till he was eighteen, but it wasn't that far away, he could survive on his wits for long enough. He could easily skip town, live on his own for a while till it was time to head for Oxford. Money was easy, he could beg, borrow or steal, it wouldn't be a problem. Not a problem at all. The one problem however, was John. Even the thought of leaving John caused a sharp pang in his chest. He couldn't be without the older man. He didn't even know how he would cope when he was at university. He couldn't live without John, he refused to be without John, he was nothing without him. So how could he just leave when John wanted to stay? Mrs Hudson was all for the move, maybe he should beg her to let him stay. However she knew how much he hated this place, how could he explain to Mrs Hudson why he was so desperate to stay without giving the game away. Or maybe they should? Now Lestrade and Mycroft knew why hide it any more? They should come clean. Sherlock was no longer at St Barts, so it wasn't like anyone would care any more. However that wasn't the issue, it had never been the issue. The issue was Sarah, it had always been Sarah.

He heard Mycroft getting dressed, then the sound of a laptop being turned on and a mumbled conversation on the phone. Mycroft obviously never stopped working. Ever. Clearly Sherlock was not interesting enough to keep his mind occupied and away from the office for very long.

Sometime later he heard Mrs Hudson's alarm clock. He listened to her pottering about, he heard the taps run and the sound of feet on the stairs. Eventually he hauled himself out of his nest and threw on a pair of jeans and a t shirt. He was just pulling on some socks when his door opened.

'Yoo Hoo.' Mrs Hudson chirped cheerily. She looked in dismay at the state of his room. 'How on earth can you live like this Sherlock?' she tutted, picking up some clothes of the floor and putting them in a pile on the bed. 'You better start packing, Mycroft wants to be in London before it gets dark. Deary me I should have made you do this last night.' She grabbed his suitcase and put it onto the bed, throwing it open. She began to carefully take out some jumpers from his wardrobe and fold them.

'I'm not going.' Sherlock insisted.

Mrs Hudson sighed 'I know its scary, moving away for the first time, but it will be good for you Sherlock, honestly, Mycroft was telling me about his place in Mayfair, it sounds wonderful, there will be so many things for you to do in London, think of all the museums. You like museums' She went back to packing his clothes, then stopped and smiled at him, gently putting her hand on his shoulder 'There is nothing left here for you, go to London, see a bit of the world before you go to university.'

Sherlock scowled, of course Mrs Hudson was wrong! There was so much here for him. He hated this, he hated how Mycroft was so determined to get involved in his life. Mycroft knew nothing of his life or his relationship with John, Sherlock was not being taken advantage of. Mycroft was just making cruel and ridiculous assumptions about them. Yes John was older then him, but John loved him. At least John hadn't left him. Ideally Mycroft would leave and he would stay here in Bakerford for the summer. Clearly dragging him away was Mycrofts hellish attempt to redeem himself for the neglect. Well, it wasn't going to work, it wasn't going to work at all. Sherlock was adamant that he was going nowhere without his John. And since he was going to be in Bakerford, then Bakerford was where he was going to be. Sure he hated the town, Mrs Hudson was right, and there was a part of him that itched for London, even if it meant Mycroft getting his own way, but he was prepared to make that sacrifice. He was soon going to be moving away from John, so he had to make do of the time they had left before seeing each other would be even more difficult then it already was.

'Morning Mrs Hudson.' Mycroft smiled, coming into his room with two empty brown boxes. 'I found these, thought we could use them to pack your books in.'

Sherlock grunted in response.

Mycroft pierced his lips together and stared at him for a few moments. 'Mrs Hudson can you please leave us alone for a few moments?' he said politely. Mycroft was always so polite, it was sickening.

'Okay dear.' She nodded, then placed a few more things in his suitcase before leaving, shutting the door behind her with a dull thud.

'I suppose you think you are being really clever don't you?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes in disdain 'In what way brother? Can't you see how absolutely ecstatic I am that you are here?'

'Oh just be quiet.' Mycroft snapped in a rare moment of emotion 'I'm just trying to help you, can't you see that?'

'If you were really interested in helping me you would let me stay here.' Sherlock insisted.

'Oh stop being ridiculous, I have explained how you must end this silly little fancy you have with Mr Watson and come to London with me, and that is final.' He flung a few books into the box as if to emphasise his point 'You will not defy me Sherlock, not any more, I let you smoke, I let you hide away in this hovel for hours on end doing goodness knows what, I let you be the anti social big head you so insist on being, but no Sherlock, I cannot allow this.'

Sherlock scowled once more. Drawing his eyes into two slits 'You are asking me to give up the love of my life to satisfy you?'

'Love of your life?' Mycroft laughed 'The same love of your life who is so insistent on staying married?'

'You don't know anything about it.' Sherlock hissed back.

'I know everything about it, and I know everything about Mr Watson and his ilk, and I will most certainly not stand by and watch you being used for sex by some pervert.' Mycroft spat the words out with venom, he made sure to keep his voice down so Mrs Hudson wouldn't hear, but they were whispered with insistence and power.

Sherlock slapped him, he wasn't even aware he had done it till heard the thwacking sound of his hand coming into contact with Mycroft's cheek.

'John is not a pervert.' Sherlock was disgusted, how dare Mycroft call him that. John was twice the man Mycroft would ever be.

'I don't know what spell that man has got you under but one day you will wake up and see what is really going on.' Mycroft replied 'One day you will thank me, in fact you should be thanking me right now for not having his arrested! One day you will be grateful that I stepped in, one day you will meet a man who is actually worthy of the Holmes name. A man who is noble and honest. Not a man who simply wants something young and eager between the sheets.' he grabbed hold of his arm but Sherlock pushed him away and the pair but stood there glaring at each other for a few long moments.

'Don't you dare talk about John that way.'

Mycroft shook his head 'I don't have time for this.' Grabbing a few more of his clothes and folding them carefully and placing them in the suitcase. 'I have tickets for the opera tomorrow evening, you are more then welcome to join me.'

'Bribing me now are you? How very boring of you.'

Mycroft didn't let Sherlock make a rise out of him.

'I want to leave soon, I don't want to hang about you understand? You will like London, I have a lovely place there, enough room for both of us. There are plenty of museums and gallery's to entertain yourself with, then before you know it you will be in Oxford and you will have forgotten all about that man.'

Sherlock shook his head, he felt so angry, he felt like hitting something. Grabbing his jacket he threw it on. 'I need some air.' he shouted as he ran out of his room and into the street.

Rooting around in his jacket pocket he found an old pack of cigarettes, a pack he thought he had misplaced and began to smoke one by one as he walked around the neighbourhood. He didn't know where he was going, he just knew he needed to get out of that stifling house and Mycroft's scheming. He could bare to be there a minute longer.

He walked and walked and walked for what felt like hours, he walked till every cigarette he had was gone and the stubs were littered around the pavements of Bakerford. Finally he slumped down on a park bench. He didn't know where to go or what to do. Suddenly his phone vibrated in his pocket.

_Mr Watson is here to see you_

_MH_

He ran back, John, John would rescue him, he would tell Mycroft where to go. He would fight for him. He would sort all this out.

'John' he yelled and he ran into the house. He looked around and realised John would most likely be in his room, sure enough he found the older man sitting on his bed. As soon as he stormed into his room he slammed the door behind him. His suitcase and a few boxes littered the floor. He never had much stuff, it would have taken Mycroft hardly any time at all to pack everything.

John stood up and Sherlock ran into his arms, he held onto John tightly as he was a life raft.

'Mycroft, he wants me to to go away.'

'Sherlock...' John tried to interrupt.

'I'm not going, I'm not going anywhere, I'm going to stay here with you.' Sherlock babbled.

'Sherlock...' John tried again.

'Or maybe we could go away, just like I said, I know you said it wouldn't work but I disagree, we can make it work, and then we could move to Oxford, you can get a new job and I could do the whole uni thing, maybe we could go to London after that, how does that sound? It would be so good, us living together.'

'Sherlock!' John pushed his away, finally getting his attention as Sherlock snapped out of whatever daydream he was in.

It was then that Sherlock realised just how incredibly lost John looked. He didn't look like his John at all, there was no smile, no life in his face. No nothing. He looked so pale and ashen. His eyes were sunken and red. He looked like a man on his way to his own execution.

'Go to London Sherlock, go with Mycroft.' He whispered.

Sherlock tilted his head to one side 'But what about you? Your coming with me right?'

There was a long pause, John looked down at the ground and sniffed. He looked like he was desperately trying to hold back tears. Sherlock didn't know why. Sherlock was happy, him and John, in London together, it was going to be brilliant. Just brilliant, exactly like it had been when they went there all those months ago. Maybe John would take him back to that restaurant they had been to? John wanted to be in London, so then why was he shaking his head at him?

'No Sherlock, I can't.' he wiped a tear from his cheek and wrapped his arms around Sherlock the way he had done so many times before. 'Your going to go to London, then to Oxford, then to who knows where, your going to have an amazing life I promise. Your going to meet amazing people, do amazing things, Bakerford isn't where you belong.'

Suddenly something struck Sherlock, a bolt of lightning straight into his chest. He pushed John away. No, this wasn't happening, this couldn't be happening.

'Are you breaking up with me?'

John sank onto his bed and buried his head into his hands. 'I'm so sorry.' he choked out, Sherlock could see the tears glisten down his face. 'I'm so so sorry but I just can't do this any more, it's not right. It's not fair on you. I can't just stand here and string you along any more. I'm such an idiot and I'm so sorry. I'm not good enough for you, I'm not good enough and we both know it.'

Sherlock felt something prick behind his eyes, he stared at John, he felt confused as he tried to figure out exactly what John was saying to him. 'But we're supposed to be together.'

John shook his head again and wiped his nose on his sleeve. 'Sherlock. I'm with Sarah.'

Sherlock felt something warm fall out of his eye and down his cheek. 'We can make it work.' Sherlock protested. 'Stop listening to everyone else all that matters is us.'

'Everyone else is right, this can't carry on any more, it just can't.'

Sherlock felt his chest heave, he had to stop this, he had to stop this from happening. He felt anger surge through him. What was John doing? Why was John doing this to him?

'In London you promised, you promised you would never hurt me' he hissed angrily as he tried to keep his composure. He would not cry, he refused to cry. 'well you are hurting me right now.'

John slowly got up off the bed, he stood right in front on him but Sherlock couldn't bare to look at his face.

'I love you, I love you and that's why I'm letting you go. One day you will understand this is for the best and one day I really hope you will forgive me.'

There was a creak as the door opened at Mycroft carefully walked in.

'Have you said goodbye?' he asked simply.

John leaned foreword and pressed a gentle kiss to his forehead.

'Goodbye Sherlock.' he whispered just out of earshot and then walked out of the room.

John walked out of the cottage and towards the direction of home. As soon as he left the house he fell upon a nearby wall his chest heaving in sobs. He fell upon the ground and ran his hands over his hair, grabbing at his scalp.

He had just lost Sherlock, _Sherlock_. He knew this was right, he knew this was good and this was the right thing to do but he was sick to think he was now alone. Sherlock was going to go off and have an amazing life, if was certain. He knew in the years to come he would hear stories of his exploits and know he did the right thing. Sherlock would forget all about him, he would move on, John was only ever going to hold Sherlock back and this way Sherlock could be anything he wanted to be. He had been cowardly and selfish, but he hoped by doing this he would put everything right. He should be the only one to suffer, not Sherlock.

Still, that was the future and right now he felt like his heart had been cut up into a million tiny pieces. He couldn't believe that it was now all over and he had just lost the one thing that meant more to him then any other.

He got up, still a complete mess and began to stagger home.

He found Sarah in the kitchen, she sat at the table with two glasses of red wine in front of her.

'We need to talk.' She looked up at him, drinking the remaining wine in her glass and got up to fetch the bottle from the counter.

John took a seat opposite his wife. 'What about?'

Sarah laughed. John grabbed one of the glasses and drank, screwing his face up as the bitter taste hit his tongue.

Sarah sat back down and leaned on her elbows.

'You really think I'm stupid don't you? You think we could be together all these years and that I wouldn't know you've been having an affair.'

John looked up. Oh god. How could she know? How could she possibly know? Had Lestrade told her? Mycroft? He began to panic, he had just lost Sherlock, he couldn't lose Sarah to.

'How did you find out?'

Sarah sighed. 'When you went to London, I rang Tom, no way would you talk about visiting old friends without seeing Tom. He told me he hadn't seen you, didn't even know you were coming. That's when I first got suspicious. Then there was you staying out late, you stopped being interested in me and started acting strangely. I just knew.'

John swallowed his wine. Sarah was smart, it was amazing to think he could have out smarted her.

'I don't know who she is and I don't care, but I care about getting my husband back. I know you are unhappy here.' she continued 'But we can start over, we can put all this behind us if you would just end it.'

John drained the last of his wine 'Whatever it is, whatever it was, it's over now.'

Sarah smiled weakly 'Do you promise?'

John nodded.

'We can be exactly like we were, I know we can' Sarah reached over and slipped her hand through John's.

It was over. It was all over. Now he had to pick up the pieces.

Sherlock let Mrs Hudson hug him one last time.

'Oh I am going to miss you so much.' she cooed over him. Sherlock felt numb, it all felt like a strange out of body experience. None of what had just happened seemed to sink in.

'Ready?' Mycroft asked, he had packed up all of Sherlock's things into the back of his car and was eager to go, they would be in London late in the evening and he was consistently checking his watch. Trying to hurry everything along. Sherlock gave up fighting him, he gave up caring.

'There is just one more thing I would like to do.'

He walked upstairs to his old room, now totally empty and from his pocket he pulled out a paper aeroplane. From another pocket he pulled out his lighter. He lit the end of the thing then watched it spark up, the orange racing over the pure white and turning it into a black ash. When it was done he threw the remains into a bin.

Now he was ready.

Mrs Hudson waved them off, wiping her tears with a tissue. He felt the car move along the streets, he watched as Mrs Hudson disappeared from the rear window. Then he watched the streets and houses and people. He promised himself he would never come back to Bakerford ever again.

Soon the houses turned into fields and they were well on there way to London.

When they reached the motorway Sherlock finally let a tear fall. He wiped it with his hand but it was soon joined by another.

'You will forget him.' Mycroft said, keeping his eyes firmly on the road ahead.

'Is that a command or a promise?' Sherlock replied.

Mycroft didn't answer.


	25. It's A Long Way Down

**Hello everyone, I know I say this a lot but again thanks for all the support. I'm trying to update at least once a week, this isn't a promise, but I will try. Anyway I hope you enjoy this chap :) Remember to let me know what you think!**

Hands On Education

Chapter 25

It's A Long Way Down

'Carbonara looks good, though maybe the pumpkin risotto, hmmm which one to have.'

John stared at his wife as she flicked through the menu at Angelo's. Sarah had insisted they come out for something to eat, and even though John didn't feel like it he threw on a clean shirt and a fake smile and followed her out the door. Angelo had greeted them enthusiastically just like he always did. They had come to Angelo's quite a few times since moving to Bakerford. He remembered the first time he had stepped through the doors, feeling new, feeling like all eyes were on him. Now he was no longer a stranger, he was part of the furniture and no one paid any attention to him at all. There was a small part of him that was weirdly angry at that. He fiddled with his pint glass. They hadn't even ordered yet and he was already on his second. The bitter liquid went down his throat so smoothly. He couldn't seem to pace himself, he couldn't seem to stop.

The restaurant was heaving, all these smart middle class couples just like Sarah and himself. They all seemed so happy, he wondered what it would be like if he slipped into someone else's life. If he could just leave all this behind.

Sarah smiled at him 'What are you having honey?'

Honey? Why the fuck was she calling him honey? He felt nauseous, Sarah had been so sweet to him recently and it made him sick. After she had confronted him about the affair she had simply ignored it, ignored the tension around them and tried to be the perfect wife. She was sickly sweet, she did all the housework, the cooking, cleaning, ironing, John had tried to do some of it himself but she had batted him away and told him to go watch telly or walk the dog. She was straight out of some kind of 40's housewife manual, full of sweet loving words and actions.

It was as if she had somehow blamed herself for his actions and was trying to make it all up to him. That somehow he had had an affair simply because she wasn't a good enough wife. Which was just ludicrous. This wasn't his Sarah, the feisty, witty head strong women he married. Clearly he had dragged her down. He had had the affair, it wasn't anything to do with Sarah, he hadn't fallen in love with Sherlock simply because Sarah didn't iron his socks.

He just wished she would yell at him like he knew she wanted to. He hated how she was smiling, how she was acting like everything was just a-okay. Even when she confronted him she had been so calm, she hadn't yelled or got angry. He couldn't stand it. He wanted her to yell and scream, he wanted her to act like she cared about what he had done. That there was still enough between them that she would get emotional. He wanted her to forgive him, he didn't want to lose her. Right now he felt like he was in limbo, he had no idea if they had a future, not with Sarah acting like this, not now when Sarah was acting so emotionless.

He knew that underneath all the smiles their marriage hung on a knife edge. It was all so close to imploding. He wanted so badly for her to just shout at him, to call him horrible names, to hit him and just get it all out in the open. Maybe then they could move on. He wanted her to make him suffer. To take the moral high ground because she was the one that had been faithful. He just wanted her to show him she was actually human. Maybe she really didn't care, maybe all this didn't matter what he did, as long as the outside world saw her with a husband it didn't matter what went on. Of course this was stupid, they had been so in love, he wondered where it had all gone wrong. Maybe she was exactly like him, hanging on simply to honour the promise they had made.

'I don't care, just pick something.'

It didn't matter what he ate, he wouldn't enjoy it whatever it was. He wouldn't taste it, it would be like ash in his mouth like every meal he had. He only ate to keep going, sometime not even then. It had been two weeks since he had sent Sherlock away, even thinking his name caused him to fall apart. When he was all alone he allowed himself to cry. He cried and cried till there was nothing left. Nothing at all. By day he was haunted by the Sherlock's words and his sharp eyes, by night his dreams were filled with Mycroft's car pulling away and out of sight. He loved Sherlock more then life itself and he would have given anything to keep him. But he knew it was the right thing to do, Sherlock was in London now, the first step to his exciting new life. He didn't regret letting him go but god did it hurt. There was a pain in his chest ever since he couldn't see that car any more. Ever since he knew Sherlock was really gone. He couldn't eat or sleep. He just lived like a zombie, barely scraping through each day, doing just enough to keep alive and that was it. He hadn't smiled since Sherlock had left, he had felt nothing but a darkness seeping into his very soul. Not that he didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve happiness, he deserved all the pain and anguish. He had wrecked his life, Sarah's, Sherlock's, he deserved all the unhappiness that had come his way. He had caused so much pain to the people who had loved him the most He hated himself, he had never hated anyone as much as he hated himself. He disgusted himself. He was selfish, cowardly, a liar, a horrid dirty filthy liar and if there was any justice he would simply be wiped from the face of the earth. There would be no mourners, everyone should just throw a massive great party that he was gone. Maybe he should end it all, a quick drop or a sharp knife and he would never hurt anyone else ever again. He felt like had fallen into a large pool of black and there was no climbing out of it.

Sarah bit her lip and exhaled in annoyance that John wasn't trying to get involved with the evening. The waitress came over and Sarah ordered a Carbonara and the pumpkin thing.

'Excuse me' John interrupted 'Can I get another one of these' he waved his almost empty beer glass.

'Certainly Sir.' The waitress took their menus away and returned a few minutes later with a fresh pint. John drained the old one and quickly started on the new one. Sarah scowled at him.

'Don't you think you should slow down?' She scowled.

'Nope.' John replied. He savoured the woozy feeling the beer was giving him. Soon he was at the stage where his inhibitions loosened and his brain was no longer in control of his mouth.

'Why are you being like this?'

'Like what?'

He sighed, he really hated Sarah right now. 'I've been having an affair Sarah, I've been sleeping with someone else for month's and you are acting like nothing happened.'

Sarah pinched her lips together and looked round at the busy restaurant hoping no one had heard his outburst. John didn't care, he hated those people. He didn't know them of course, but he hated them simply because they lived here. The whole restaurant could have heard them for all he cared.

'Do we have to talk about this now?'

'Yes.' he hissed. They had been dancing around this for two whole weeks now. 'Why are you doing this? Acting like everything's normal? I was having sex with someone else, I fell in love with someone so why the hell are you acting like some Stepford wife?'

'I told you I want to put it all behind us, can we just let this go?' She pleaded. John shook his head and grabbed her hand.

'No, I mean yes, of course I want to put it all behind us but I'm sick of this. I fucked someone else, I enjoyed it, I even said I loved them so stop being nice to me.' he gripped her hand far too tightly, the words spilled out of his mouth and he couldn't stop them. Sarah tried to pull away but John wouldn't let her.

'Stop it, just stop it.' Sarah yelled at him. John felt everyone in Angelo's swivel round and face him. Anger and pity at that poor women and that horrible man upsetting her.

John had had enough, he drank the last of his beer and threw on his jacket, running out of the restaurant. He heard Sarah scream his name behind him.

He stormed down the streets towards home. His heart beating so violently it felt like it would burst right out of his chest. He felt a stitch form in his stomach, the sharp stabbing pain underneath his ribcage.

'John! John stop please.' Sarah pleaded as she ran after him, grabbing his arm and forcing him to a halt.

'Why are you letting this go?' John shouted at her far too loudly, he had drunk far too much to be calm and quiet.

'Can we not do this here?' Sarah pleaded 'Let's go home, we can discuss it there.' She tried to take his arm and lead him away but John refused to budge. He wanted to do this right out in the open, yelling in a street like some bad soap opera, he was silently thrilled.

'Tell me you hate, me. I know you want to' he continued 'Call me a bastard and a slut because that is exactly what I am.' The street was deserted, it was slightly odd going from a busy noisy restaurant to a silent street.

'I don't want to lose you John' She sniffed as she desperately tried to keep her composure. Finally he saw a crack in her façade.

'Then get angry at me, if you do there could be a chance for us.'

'Fine.' She snapped, hitting him hard on the arm. 'It killed me, it killed me knowing you were with someone else, lying in bed with you every single night knowing you were being unfaithful. I hate you, I really do, is that what you want to hear?'

John sighed in relief. That felt so much better. Finally he had a reaction. It was a relief, bringing her down into the gutter and now they were on the same level. He pulled her into a hug and wrapped his arms around her. She rested her head on his shoulder and John felt the dampness of her tears.

'I still love you.' she sniffed 'I still love you and that's the worst part. Knowing you can betray me like this and yet I still can't let go.'

'I love you to, I won't ever hurt you again I promise.' He gently rocked her from side to side.

'Come back to me.' Sarah whispered into his ear. Kind comforting words that he wanted to grab and hold onto. 'Just come back, forget everything that's happened, we can move on and be exactly as we once were, just stop pulling away from me.'

John nodded 'We can get through this, I know we can. I won't lose you, I just wont' he took out a packet of tissues from his pocket and handed one to his wife.

'Thank you.' she murmured and blew her nose, then wiped the skin underneath her eyes, her mascara had run slightly but he didn't tell her this. As if somehow ruining his wife's eye make up was tangible evidence of the pain he caused her. He wanted to see it, he wanted it to hurt.

'Come on.' she slipped her arm through his and they slowly walked away. 'Let's go home.'

* * *

><p>'Well, do you like it?'<p>

Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror and tried to take in the new sight. He couldn't quiet believe just how good he looked, he looked achingly cool, the long coat fit him like a glove and covered his frame in a secure blanket of black, he turned up the collar for added effect. He imagined running in it and it flapping behind him like a cape. He imagined how warm and snug he would feel with it on even in the depths of winter. There was nothing about the coat he didn't love, from the buttons right down to the coloured thread in the button hole. He never had a coat like this before, he didn't think he would ever take it off.

Mycroft still held the box it had come in as he looked over him. Deducing within seconds whether the fit was exactly as he had ordered it. Months of buying top of the range suits had left Mycroft somewhat of an expert in male tailoring. Mycroft had spent the past few weeks and a considerable amount of money completely updating Sherlock's wardrobe in preparation for Oxford. Expertly tailored trousers, silk shirts and suit jackets. Normally he hated Mycroft giving him anything, but a part of him enjoyed the hitting Mycroft's credit cards were getting, and he felt so at one with the coat.

'I bought you this as well, Autumn is coming so you will need to wrap up warm.'

Another expensive looking box handed to him, though this time inside was a blue scarf. He ran his fingers over the material, it was so soft. One glance and he knew it would offset the coat beautifully.

They were standing in the centre on Mycroft's living room. The flat was large and ornately decorated. It all looked like the inside of a Victorian gentlemen's club, the only sign that they were in the modern age was a large television screen that was hardly ever switched on and electric lighting. Though Sherlock had to admit, despite the glaring expense, it felt warm and homely. Not that he really felt at home here. He felt like he was muscling in on Mycroft's space, an outsider that wasn't really wanted. He couldn't wait for Oxford, he wanted out, he wanted a home of his own. He spent most of his time far away, he walked the streets of London, exploring and foraging around the city. He walked along every street he had been with John, even found the hotel they had stayed in. He debated going inside but instead sat on a bench and watched. He saw a smiling couple run up to the entrance, the man ran up to his girlfriend and pulled her into a kiss before running inside, he stormed off.

'I have a meeting tonight.' Mycroft interrupted his thoughts, 'There's some money on the mantelpiece if you want to get a takeaway.'

Sherlock nodded, he wasn't hungry but he would pocket the money anyway. It wasn't like Mycroft would miss it.

He was quite used to being alone now. Mycroft worked all day every day and Sherlock was mostly left to his own devices. Not that he really minded the hours of solitude. He was a loner, it was in his nature, he felt more comfortable on his own, wondering the streets of London on his own, he didn't need a babysitter.

'Fine.' Sherlock shrugged.

Later, wearing his new coat and scarf, he slipped out into the night. He had no particular place in mind, he just wanted to get out of the flat and walk out into the fresh air. Mycroft would be back late, still Sherlock made sure to make a lump in his duvet as a disguise, just in case he came snooping.

He walked and walked, right down to Bank tube station. He hoped that the walking and sounds of the city would calm his mind but it was no good. He couldn't stop thinking, he couldn't stop thinking about what he had left behind. John. He tried so hard to just leave it all behind, delete his memory and leave John in Bakerford, but it was no good. John prayed on his mind every single second of every single day. He wanted John back so badly, he wished John was still by his side. He would have done absolutely anything for that man, he would even have stayed in Bakerford, it didn't matter, a life time with John would be worth anything he would give up. But it was no good, John was gone now. He had loved him so much, he still did. He hated thinking about John, he hated the hurt. He wanted John so much, but he was old enough to realise simply wanting something didn't make it come true. He had lost John and he was never coming back.

He had expressed all the physical symptoms of heartbreak, he had cried, he had got angry, he had sulked and cried again. Now that was all gone, it was like his body had just shut down, nothing remained. He had expelled it all and now it was just too tired to continue. He didn't sleep, he didn't eat. His heart had just given up, so now all that he was was transport for his brilliant mind. He quickly made the decision to never love again, he would do nothing but think, he wouldn't simply turn off any emotions he had. He wouldn't be happy or sad, no more love or sex, he would live for his mind and that would be it.

He walked the back streets home. His epiphany weighing heavily on his mind. He thought of his new life, he decided he would be above everyone. They could love and fuck and hate and kill each other, he would play no part in it. He would be outside the circle of humanity, like someone looking through a window at the people inside. It would be better this way, all these walls he was building up meant he would never ever be hurt again. It didn't know why he hadn't done this in the first place. It was exciting, this new feeling, for the first time in a long time he felt entirely in control. He had shut it all off and now he could begin again.

Walking at a cross roads he heard shouting, a man running past him and into an ally way he knew to be a dead end. Suddenly a police officer came right into his personal space.

'All right mate did you see where he went?' The officer asked him, divorced, two, no three kids. Teenagers clearly by the way he was talking to him. Owns a Boarder collie.

'That way.' he pointed in the opposite direction.

'Thanks.' he spluttered then ran down the street. He watched till the policemen was out of sight and walked away.

'Hey.' A voice called out behind him, strong east end accent, obviously a petty drug dealer judging by the coat and hat. 'I owe you one man' he smiled at him. Sherlock shrugged.

'Are you all right, you look sad?' The man asked, tilting his head to the side and eyebrow raised. Sherlock laughed.

'I've never been psychoanalysed by a drug dealer before.'

The man shrugged. He was young, very young, he only looked a year or two older then himself, with black hair peeking out from under his hat and bright blue eyes, he was pretty, far too pretty for the life he had chosen. Father problems, kicked out of the house, used to be homeless though he was now staying in a squat, using drugs as an escape and selling them to survive.

'I could cheer you up, if you want. Got some good stuff.'

Sherlock's mind suddenly stopped. Should he? He had never tried drugs before. He heard John's voice in his head screaming no, but John wasn't here, no one was here. It was a way out, a distraction.

'Name's Charlie by the way.' Again Sherlock found himself chuckling.

'How very ironic.'

The man, Charlie, smiled. 'Yeah I know, so you want some or not?'

Sherlock thought hard for a few moments before pushing it all out of his mind. 'Sure.'

He walked with the into a nearby bar, Charlie lead him into the men's bathroom. Sherlock followed him once more into an empty cubicle. It was incredibly cramped with the two of them standing there. Sherlock watched as Charlie took out a small packet and laid out a white powder, using his credit card he cut it all out into two even lines. Sherlock couldn't take his eyes off Charlie as he pushed his right nostril closed and snorted.

'Shit' Charlie laughed as he wiped his nose. His pupils already the size of saucers. 'Go on.' he nodded at the second line.

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what he was doing, but he copied Charlie's actions. He felt the coke rush up his nose and right into his brain. The effects were immediate, he brain closed in with the rush and it took him a few seconds to compose himself. The euphoria was instant. His brain suddenly shot up into top gear. Clearly the smile was evident on his face.

Charlie laughed at him 'it's good right.'

Sherlock nodded. Soon a phone number was thrust into his hands.

'Plenty more where that came from. Ring me, any time. Here take this' The man dug inside his pocket and pulled out what looked like a hand rolled cigarette, except it was bigger. 'For the comedown.'

Sherlock gently took the spliff and put it inside his pocket for later.

'I got to go, but thanks mate, if it wasn't for you I would be in a jail cell.' he gave Sherlock a quick and awkward hug and left, leaving Sherlock behind in the cubicle. Sherlock sat on the toilet seat, taking a few moments to get his bearings. He laughed, the euphoria, the rush, he was in love. Everything was so clear and sharp. He walked out of the bar trying not to attract too much attention. The air outside would have been cold, but Sherlock couldn't feel it. All he could feel was the cocaine rushing through his system. He leaned against a wall and smoked the spliff Charlie had given him. He felt invincible, he felt unbreakable. The high didn't last long, he had only had one line after all, but it was enough to make him know he needed more of it.

He lay in bed at night, fully dressed as he had no intention of sleeping, the high had totally worn off and he felt a slight headache. Running his hand over the numbers Charlie had written down on the scrap piece of paper. He would ring tomorrow. He needed the powder again, when he had been high he had totally forgotten about John. It was so calming, know he knew he had a way out. Know he knew how to escape from all the pain. A small snort and John was gone, the heartbreak was gone, his life faded into nothing, everything was gone and it felt so good. Once again he had found solace in chemistry.

He wanted more, he couldn't wait. It was late but did drug dealers really keep regular hours. He decided to risk it and dialled the number into his phone, pressing the green button he held it to his ear.

His body may just be transport, but his brain needed the drug like he needed air. He felt it itch and yearn for this new sensation he had discovered. Nothing else seemed to matter. Nothing at all.


	26. The Lightning Strike

**Hello Hello Hello!**

**Another quick update, yeah, go me. Though I did write this with my cat on my lap, which I can't decide is good or bad. Though right now I can't feel my legs.**

**Okay, so I know a lot of you have seen the complete sign and thought 'whaaaaaaaat you doing girrrrrrrrrrllllllllll?' but let me explain.**

**THIS IS NOT THE END!**

**I'm really conscious of how big the chapter/word count is getting, and there is still so much to write, so I have decided to split this fic into two parts. This chapter is really short, but I wanted to make a definite end to part one. **

**The sequel will be called 'Closer. Still' and will be up soon.**

**I really, really, really (really) hope you guys read it. In the meantime please leave me a review and let me know what this chapter is like!**

**I love you all with the power of a billion flappy coats and if i could i would come round and make you all a big cup of tea. **

**mmmmmm, tea.**

**See you all soon!**

**MB**

**Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx**

**Hands On Education.**

**Chapter 26**

**The Lightning Strike**

It had been a whole month since John had last seen Sherlock.

Or rather it had been thirty one days since John had last seen Sherlock.

Or rather it had been thirty one days, 744 hours, 44640 minutes and 2678400 seconds since John had last seen Sherlock. Since he had seen that car disappear out of sight.

Every day seemed to go on forever, every hour he lived in the hollow blackness of his new life, every minute he sat staring into nothing and every second caused an unspeakable anguish to burn through his system.

He had gone through everything over and over again. From first meeting Sherlock right up to watching Mycroft drive away. He remembered each detail, all the things they talked about, all the things they did. Went over every tiny thing in his mind, from the way Sherlock walked to the way his curls felt when we ran them through his fingers. From the way he smiled when he thought John wasn't looking to how he looked when deep in thought. He remembered it all, he clutched to each memory, desperately hoping that if he went over it again and again he would never forget. That if he really concentrated he could replay their entire relationship as if it was on tape.

He let everything settle in his mind, all the regrets and anger and the hurt. He let it scratch and itch and just take over. Now he was apart, now it was all over and he was on the outside looking in he could see everything so clearly. Hindsight was of course, 20/20. He had thought that time would heal his wounds, that if he waited and waited then his pain would numb. But right now, despite an entire month having passed between then and now, the pain was still fierce. He still felt his eyes prick with tears whenever he thought of Sherlock.

Now, after all those hours of thinking over and over again he could only draw one conclusion.

He had made a huge mistake.

Why couldn't he, just for once in his life, just forget about what was right, about what he was supposed to do, and just gone after what he wanted. Sherlock had been right, they would have been so good together, they had been good together, if only he had just let go of everyone else and just run. Sherlock had even said it himself, all that time ago he had told them they should just go. Why hadn't he? Why hadn't he had just packed his bags and left? He wished he could just go back in time and shake himself, tell himself that he had the most amazing person, that love like this only came once in a lifetime that he should hold on and to not let go. That the pain of loosing Sherlock was too much. He wished he could tell his old self all of it.

He wanted Sherlock back, he wanted Sherlock back so badly it hurt. He just wanted him to come back to Bakerford, that he would just walk through the door and right back into his arms. All would be forgotten and Sherlock and he would just carry right on with their lives, together. He had imagined it all in his mind, he imagined Sherlock coming home, his smell, the taste of him on his lips. He imagined his cheekbones and sharp eyes that never missed anything. How could he even have thought for one second that he could live without that? Without him? He wished with all his heart that Sherlock would just walk right back into his life.

He was an idiot. A great big massive idiot.

He deserved it though, he hadn't fought for Sherlock. He hadn't fought for what he wanted, he had just let Sherlock out of his life as easy as water running through his fingers, and that's why he didn't deserve him back. Sherlock wouldn't want him now anyway, and why would he? He had treated him so badly, he could see that now. It was sick, the way he would tell Sherlock how much he loved him then he would go right back to Sarah.

How the hell had Sherlock put up with it? How could he have treated someone who had done nothing but love him in so badly?

Now he was alone, just like he should be. Trapped in a town he hated because he hadn't just taken the risk and followed his heart. There was nothing here for him now, but he had made his choice. Now he had to deal with the consequences. All he could do was live with heartbreak and in the meantime try and fix things with Sarah. She was all he had left, he had made his choice and chosen Sarah so now he had to mend their marriage. He couldn't just sit here and mope around over a love he had pushed away. If he could fix things and make them exactly as they were when they first married then maybe things would work out for them. Maybe everything would turn out okay in the end.

Sarah seemed to know the answer to how to make everything better. Babies. Suddenly Sarah had become obsessed. Actually obsessed, whenever they were out he caught her staring longingly at mums with pushchairs, baby catalogues and other paraphernalia began to seep into his house. She wanted a kid, she said it would fix them, 'a way to put all this behind us John'. It made him feel sick. He liked children, he was good with them, he had a way of getting on their level and his friends and family members kids always seemed to cling to him whenever he was round. Yet he couldn't have one with Sarah, he couldn't bring a child into the world with the mess that was all around him. He wanted to put it off, to wait until things were right between them then maybe procreate. They were a young couple, they had so much time yet Sarah seemed so desperate. She seemed to be constantly talking about children, baby names, birthing plans, whether she would breastfeed or bottle, she watched childcare programmes on TV, anything she could get her hands on. He just wanted it to stop, he would put it off and put it off for as long as he could. He wanted to put his hands over his ears and screw his eyes shut and shut it all out. It felt like white noise taking over him.

But it wasn't just Sarah and kids, it was him. It was his desperate need to have Sherlock back. Nothing would be right without him, but he couldn't have him, it was lost. Sherlock was gone. It was just too late to go back.

He was nothing now.

He was absolutely nothing.

* * *

><p>Sherlock glanced around, dumping the last box onto the kitchen floor.<p>

'What are these?' Mycroft balked holding up a jar.

'Eyeballs, put them down' Mycroft quickly put the jar down on the kitchen counter when he found on the unsavoury nature of the substance.

'I'm going to pop out to tesco and get you some things.'

Sherlock shrugged, he hoped Mycroft would buy him an industrial size box of teabags, the rest he wasn't too fused about. He allowed Mycroft to buy him a kitchen set, pots and pans and such, but he had no intention of cooking.

What he was really grateful or though, was the brand new laptop that he was still in the box. He had even said thank you. Mycroft had yet to recover from the shock.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn't being forced into grotty student halls. Mycroft had given him the keys to his old flat. He had two days to settle in, get everything sorted and then lectures would start on Monday. The flat was okay, a little on the small side but it was in a prime location in the middle of Oxford. It would do, and, despite actually belonging to Mycroft. It was his. A home all of his own. The flat was made up of one large room, with the kitchen, table and living room, then at the end was a door which led to the bedroom and en-suit.

He quickly started making the space his own. He set up his microscope, test tubes and Bunsen burner on the table. Then hung up an old poster of the periodic table on a wall. While he unpacked Mycroft came home and unpacked whatever he had bought.

Together they set up Sherlock's new flat, they talked awkwardly as they made Sherlock's bed.

'You are going to be okay, you do know that?'

Sherlock shrugged again. 'if you say so.'

Mycroft took him out to some restaurant later that day. Then it was back to the flat and time to say goodbye.

'Good luck' Mycroft gave him a rather clumsy hug.

He returned to his new flat, though it didn't feel like he owned this, that it was his space. All his things were around him but he didn't feel like he belonged to him. He still felt on-edge as he waited to settle in.

Very carefully he took out a duffel bag he had kept close by all day. Sitting on the bed he unzipped it and took out an old Moroccan case he had found in a shop in Camden.

He had been experimenting with injecting for the past few weeks, quickly finding that snorting it was just enough. Charlie had given him enough to last the week, then he was on his own. Though he doubted he would have trouble finding a source. He had already prepared himself his desired 7% solution the night before for this very moment, he knew it would be a long day, and didn't want to faff about preparing the drug. He would want to just inject and go.

The window of his new bedroom was large, giving him a wonderful view of the city. He glanced at the spires as he wrapped a belt around his arm. He waited for the line of blue to rise out of the white. He felt bad doing it, attacking the pale white. The skin looked so innocent and he was defiling it. Spoiling it with the sharp syringe. It was already marred with nicks from previous injections.

Flicking the syringe he slid the point into the skin and fell into the abyss. Straight away he felt his brain quickening and forgetting all his problems. He could think, and focus on what he wanted. His brain was no longer fuzzy and clouded over with John.

He collapsed back onto the bed. Riding out the high. He wondered what John would make of him he could see him now, a worthless junkie. He had seen what addiction had done to his father and now he was carrying on the cycle. Luckily his mother had died before seeing the depravity his life had sunk. A homosexual drug addict. He could feel her turning in her grave.

John would hate him if he could see him, drugged out of his mind. Not that it mattered, John hated him. Why else would he break up with him? Sending him away to London so he could forget about him, the dirty little secret he regretted and now wanted to forget all about. He went back to Sarah, his wife, his beautiful smart funny wife. Everything he wasn't. Why would anyone want him anyway? It was miraculous John had even given him a second look. Lying here high and forgotten was all he was worth.

He imagined John and Sarah, living their happy lives far away from him. He pictured them sitting on the sofa watching TV, making dinner and drinking wine, kissing and cuddling. All the things he wished he could do.

He wished John would just walk through the door and into his arms. He wished he could just go back to when John was his and everything was right with the world.

Nothing would be right without him, but he couldn't have him, it was lost. John was gone. It was just too late to go back.

He was nothing now.

He was absolutely nothing.

* * *

><p><strong>First chapter of 'Closer. Still' will be up soon. Please let me know what you think of this chap. :)<strong>


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